We Are the Ants (29 page)

The whole thing had happened suddenly. Charlie and Zooey were arguing over paint colors for the baby's room while Diego and I played video games on the couch. Then Mom burst into the house and herded us all into the car for a surprise family dinner at Neptune's.

“So, Diego, where in Colorado are you from?”

Diego's mouth was full of a tomato wedge from his salad. His eyes grew wide, and he chewed quickly while everyone watched him, before spitting out, “Brighton.”

“How's the renovation coming, Charlie?” I was trying to rescue Diego—I'd never seen him so adorably flustered—but my mother was not easily deterred.

“What brought you to Calypso?”

Diego set down his fork. Unlike at the barbecue, he had impeccable manners. He kept his elbows off the table, didn't talk with his mouth full, and used his napkin frequently. “I got into some trouble, so I came to live with my sister, Viviana.”

“What kind of trouble?” My mother, the Grand Inquisitor.

“This isn't an interrogation,” I said. As mortified as I was at her merciless prying, I was as anxious to hear the answers as she was. Only, I didn't want Diego to know that.

“Sounds like one to me,” Charlie said. Zooey elbowed him in the ribs. She couldn't scoot all the way up to the table because of her bulging belly, but she didn't let that stop her from eating everything within reach—her salad, all the bread, Charlie's salad. Zooey's pregnancy was turning into a great diet for my brother.

“I'm only trying to get to know your boyfriend, sweetheart.”

“He's not my boyfriend.”

Diego blushed. “We're just friends—”

“That make out,” Charlie added. Diego blushed redder than ketchup, and I flashed my brother a death stare. “What? Don't leave your door open if you don't want me to record video of it and post it to SnowFlake.”

“Henry, if you're going to have a friend you sometimes make out with, I have to get to know him.” I couldn't believe we were discussing my nonrelationship with Diego in a restaurant on Christmas Eve. How could I explain my feelings for Diego to them when I didn't understand them myself? Not that Mom gave me the chance. “You were saying, Diego?”

Diego managed to remain calm, though I have no idea how. When he spoke, his voice was even, flat almost, and barely rose above the background noises of the restaurant. “I spent two years in a juvenile detention center for breaking my father's arm. Both arms, actually. And his nose. He also had a fractured skull, but that probably wasn't entirely my fault.”

And the table descended into silence. Even my brother, who had a smartass remark for everything, was struck dumb. After Diego told me he spent time in juvenile detention, I'd tried to imagine what he'd been put away for. Nearly killing his father never made the list.

“My father believed in Jesus,” Diego said quietly, “but he believed in meth more. He'd go on binges, spend weeks high and crazy, beating up my mom and sister. When he sobered up, he'd find the Lord and beg forgiveness, and we were supposed to accept that. My sister kept me out of ­trouble when she was home, but the day she turned eighteen, she packed a bag, boarded the first bus out of Brighton, and left. I was ten.

“For my thirteenth birthday, my mom fried up fresh fish for dinner and baked me a cake. Carrot, because it was my favorite. My dad came home, tweaking, and laid into my mom. Sometimes he used his fists, but that night he grabbed the dirty skillet off the stove. It was one of those heavy, cast-iron skillets that my mom had gotten from her mom who'd gotten it from
her
mom.” Diego clenched his jaw, shook his head. “I don't actually remember what happened after that. My court-appointed shrink said that I'd been suppressing my anger for years and that I might have experienced a psychotic break.

“I pled to a lesser charge on my lawyer's advice, but my one condition was that I be allowed to live with Viviana after my release. So here I am.”

No one ate a single bite during Diego's explanation. Charlie was still holding a loaded fork, but had forgotten it entirely. Based on what Diego had told me, I knew his father was abusive, but I wasn't prepared for the truth. Here I'd been whining about my life, and Diego had lost a chunk of his for protecting his mother from his bastard dad. If anyone should have wanted to not press the button, it was Diego.

“Jesus Christ, Henry, you sure know how to pick 'em.” Charlie chuckled like this was a joke.

As soon as Diego stopped speaking, Mom began to eat again. Small bites that she chewed about a hundred times before swallowing. When the waiter passed nearby, she waved him down and ordered a vodka tonic.

Diego squeezed my hand under the table. I didn't squeeze it back.

Zooey rubbed her belly and offered Diego the table's only smile. “That must've been a horrible way to grow up. My psych professor says we never truly know what we're capable of until we're put into a hopeless situation.”

“It's true,” Diego said.

Mom wiped her mouth with the cloth napkin and set it on the table. The waiter returned with her drink and she drained it before saying, “I hope you learned how to deal with your anger while you were in juvenile detention.”

“Not living with my father helps. And I paint.”

Charlie slapped the table. “Shit, I've got two rooms that need painting. When my little bro pisses you off, come on over and grab a brush.”

Zooey's eyes lit up. “Could you do a mural for the baby's room? I'll pay you.”

I tried to intercede, but Charlie and Zooey sank their claws into Diego, and he'd soon agreed to paint the baby's room, though he refused to accept money for his work. Charlie and Zooey got caught up wrangling over the color palette and only stopped when Diego suggested a combination of colors. He got along with my family better than I did.

Mom signaled the waiter for another drink. After he dropped it off, she cleared her throat to get our attention. “How do you like the restaurant?”

I hadn't given the place much thought. I'd been so nervous about Diego joining us for dinner that I'd barely noticed the surroundings. “It's cool, I guess.” Neptune's was a quaint seafood restaurant with views of the intracoastal. Small and chummy, the decor was thrift-store chic, and the food was outstanding. It wasn't a normal dinner joint with bland selections you could find anywhere. The menu was inventive and playful and definitely not cheap.

Zooey was more enthusiastic. “My dad adores this place. He brings all his clients here.”

“Five stars,” Diego said, looking down at his completely clean plate. “I'd definitely eat here again.”

“Good.” Mom leveled her gaze at me and Charlie. “Look, I'm going to need you boys to pitch in around the house. Things are going to be tight for a while.”

Charlie cast me a questioning glance, but I was clueless. “Yeah,” he said. “Okay, Mom.”

“What's going on?” I asked.

“I quit Tutto Fresco.”

My stomach dropped. I'd spent my savings on Christmas gifts. I began mentally calculating how much money I could give Mom to help with the bills if I returned them. And maybe I could get a job.

Charlie said, “You quit? Right before Christmas?”

“Yes.” Mom sipped her vodka tonic. She sounded unconcerned, but her jaw muscles twitched, and she clutched her drink glass so tightly, I worried she might break it. “But don't you boys worry. I've got a new job.”

“Where?” As soon as I asked, a smile blossomed on Mom's face, the tension fled. “Here? You're working here?”

Mom nodded. “I start after the new year.”

“You think the tips will be better?” Charlie asked.

“I'm not waiting tables,” Mom said. “I'm the new sous chef.”

“Congratulations, Mrs. Denton,” Diego said, unaware of how big a deal it was. Actually, I was glad he said it because I was too blown away to speak.

Mom glowed as she described how nervous and tongue-tied she'd been during the interview. She thought she'd blown it because of the way the owner's attention had wandered, but rather than give up, she marched into the kitchen and prepared a spicy tuna tartare. All it took was one bite, and the job belonged to her. It was a gutsy move, and I smiled thinking about how scared she must have been to ignore the head chef yelling at her for being in his kitchen while she chopped and sliced her way into a new job.

“I'm really proud of you, Mom.” In fact, I'd never been more proud.

Zooey said, “What made you decide to go for it?”

Mom smiled at me. “Someone gave me a mirror.”

  •  •  •  

After dinner, Diego and I meandered down the street in front of my house. Neither of us said much. The silence grew between us like a weed pushing through the cracks in a sidewalk. Finding out that my mom had quit her job waiting tables to follow her dream was huge, but Diego occupied my thoughts. I wondered who he'd been before he was locked away, and who his time in juvenile detention had turned him into. My Diego—with his carefree grin and slugger-green eyes—hardly seemed capable of hurting anyone, but he'd admitted to beating his father so badly that he'd broken his bones. Dinner had left me with more questions than answers. Was Diego a nice boy who sometimes lost his temper or a monster who'd mastered pretending to be nice?

“Your mom's cool,” Diego said.

“Sorry about the interrogation.”

“At least she didn't pull out my fingernails or electrocute my genitals.”

“She's probably saving that for next time.”

The weather had finally turned cooler, though it still didn't feel like Christmas. I grew up in Florida, where it's a miracle if it gets cold enough to need a hoodie, but Christmas just doesn't feel right without snow and hot chocolate and a roaring fire. I suppose television and movies have brainwashed me. Or maybe we're just born with some beliefs in our bones. “How come you never told me about your dad?”

Diego stopped in the middle of the road. I stood beside him, unsure what to do next. The houses on my street were decorated with bright holiday lights, displaying their glowing Santas and candy canes, but it still felt like Diego and I were alone in the world.

He started walking back toward my house, and when the silence was almost too much to bear, Diego said, “You know that painting you like?” I nodded, remembering the bird clawing at the boy's heart, and the last word frozen on his dead lips. “I painted that the night before I reported to juvie. The judge had accepted my plea agreement, and I was living with my uncle because I couldn't go back to my parents' house. It was going to be my last night of freedom for a long time—I should have gone out with my friends or spent time with Viviana—but I spent the whole night painting. That was the worst day of my life, and that painting was me on the worst day of my life.” Diego knuckled tears from the corner of his eyes.

“Maybe that's not how I see myself now—some days, I don't know—but it's how everyone else sees me—my family, my friends, my sister. Everyone who knows the truth.” Diego stopped walking and turned to me. “I never wanted you to see me that way.”

“It wasn't your fault.”

“I almost killed my dad!” Diego shouted. He clenched his fists and bit his lip. He trembled and shook, and I didn't know how to help him. “When it comes to the people I care about, everything gets messed up in my head. I don't know who I am, but I know who I don't want to be.”

We stood in front of my duplex. Light peeked through the curtains of my living room window, and I thought I saw my mom's shadow. I couldn't look at Diego without imagining his dead-eyed stare as he attacked his father, without wondering if he'd enjoyed the sound of cracking bones or smiled when he saw the blood on his hands. “Did you smash the windows of Marcus's car?”

“If you have to ask, then my answer won't matter.” Diego's voice was flat, and he wouldn't look me in the eyes. He sat on the hood of his car, fidgeting with his keys.

“Tell me you didn't do it, and I'll believe you.”

“No, you won't.” Diego stood up, kissed my cheek, and got in his car. “Merry Christmas, Henry.”

  •  •  •  

I called Audrey as soon as Diego's car disappeared down the street. She was waiting outside of my house fifteen minutes later. We drove to IHOP and got a corner booth and some pancakes, which didn't make me feel any better. Audrey talked about inconsequential things while I tried to sort out what had happened with Diego. It felt like a breakup even though we were never a couple. His leaving hurt like the punch of finality that only comes from a broken heart. I recognized the pain because I'd felt it the day I found out Jesse was dead.

“I miss him,” I said. I hadn't meant to say it out loud; I'd only been thinking it.

“You'll work it out with Diego.”

“Not Diego. Jesse.”

“Oh.” Audrey chewed a bite of soggy pancake, but I imagined it tasted like gravel to her, the way everything had tasted like gravel to me since Jesse's death. “I miss him too.”

“He should be sitting beside me, holding my hand under the table, kicking my foot with his foot, turning everything into a dirty joke.” I dragged my fork through the syrup on my plate, creating trenches that quickly filled in again. “If Jesse were here, everything would be different.”

“Yeah,” Audrey said, “it would be. But Jesse's not here. I am and you are. Jesse's dead, Henry.”

“Why? Why did Jesse kill himself?”

Audrey shook her head, raised her napkin to her face like she was going to cry. I waited for her to give me the answer I'd been waiting months and months for. “I don't know. I wish I knew, but I don't. I wish I could point to one specific reason that caused Jesse to give up, but I can't. Sometimes, people just quit wanting to live, and there's no good reason for it. It's so fucking selfish and cruel to the people left behind, but we can't change that. We can only live with it.”