We Are the Ants (36 page)

At least, that's what I told myself.

Mom was cooking when I walked into the kitchen. Buzzing about, happier than I'd seen her in ages. Audrey was picking me up to go to Calypso High's winter carnival in fifteen minutes. I had no real desire to waste my time throwing balls at bottles to win cheap prizes, but Audrey refused to let me spend another Friday night wallowing alone in my room. I tried to ignore the possibility that Diego might be there, but when I realized I'd spent an hour obsessing over what to wear, I knew I was hoping to see him.

“Smells good in here,” I said. There were so many aromas, it was difficult to separate them, but I was pretty certain one was fish.

“Pancetta-wrapped salmon with asparagus and lime crème fraîche.” She glanced at me over her shoulder as she stood at the sink washing asparagus. “You look nice.”

I peeked at the bowls on the counter, looking for something to nibble on, but none of it looked edible. “Audrey and I are going to the winter carnival.”

“That'll be fun.” She sounded doubtful, and I was right there with her.

“Sadly, I have nothing better to do.” I settled on a banana. It was still too green, but I had to quiet my chatty stomach. “You seen Charlie?”

Mom shook her head. “I think he's staying with Zooey at her parents' house.”

Charlie and I hadn't spoken since the other night. My ribs looked like a weather map predicting a winter storm, but I'll count it a worthy sacrifice if Charlie never drives drunk again.

“You think they'll get through this?”

Mom transferred the asparagus to the cutting board. She smiled as she chopped. I hadn't seen her smoke since New Year's either, but I didn't mention it. She'd tried to quit before but had never lasted longer than a week. I hoped she succeeded, but I didn't want her to feel like a failure if she didn't.

“It's hard to tell.”

“I like Zooey,” I said. “I like Charlie with Zooey.” It didn't matter that Charlie didn't deserve his beautiful, brilliant fiancée. For some unknown reason she loved him, and he was a better person for it.

“Me too.” Even Mom seemed surprised that she meant it. “Though, I do hope your brother changes his mind about college.”

I chuckled. “Fat chance.”

“Can't blame a mom for dreaming.” She set to work descaling the salmon. I've never been able to get past the meaty pink of it, so similar to human flesh, the white stripes of fat running through it.

“Are you having someone for dinner?”

She shook her head. “Just experimenting for the restaurant.”

“How's it going?”

“Good . . . I think.” Mom leaned forward and made a face. “Henry, will you scratch my forehead?” She held up her fishy hands.

Mom arched her back like a cat when I finally hit the itch. “Better?”

“Much.”

“You seem happier.”

“I guess I am,” Mom said after thinking about it for a moment. “It's tough work, and Chef Norbert can be a real asshole—”

“Nice way to talk about your new boss.”

She rolled her eyes. “What? His only mode of speaking is yelling, and sometimes he barks orders in French and I have no idea what he's saying.” Mom laughed, and I couldn't help thinking there hadn't been enough of that in our house this last year. “Maybe I'll open my own restaurant one day.”

I cringed at the idea of Mom running her own place, stress smoking and screaming at the help, but there were worse dreams to have. “Well, someone ought to put Charlie's college fund to use.”

“Good thinking.”

I watched Mom while I waited for Audrey. She chopped and mixed and moved so quickly that I couldn't always follow what she was doing, but every action was confident. Cooking is practically magic to me, and my mom is a wizard.

“Mom? Did Dad leave because of me?”

She froze. The knife hovered over the cutting board, and her eyebrows dipped to form a V. “Why on Earth would you think that?”

“Lots of reasons.”

“Henry, sweetie, your father loved you.”

“I know.”

“You aren't the reason he left.”

“Why then?”

Mom sighed and set down her knife. She moved more slowly, like she'd been waiting years for me to ask and, now that I had, she realized she wasn't prepared to answer. “Your father and I fell out of love. Joel was never the marrying type, and I was naive. In love with the idea of love. His devotion to you and Charlie is the reason he stayed as long as he did.”

“If he loved us so much, why'd he abandon us?”

“Because he hated the person he was becoming, and he wanted to leave before you and your brother hated him too.”

My memories of my father are all jumbled together. They say when we recall a memory, we're actually calling up the last time we remembered it, and I'm not sure I can trust that my anger at him for leaving hasn't tainted those memories. I tried to think back to the last few months he lived with us. Had he been stressed? More distant? If he'd stayed, would my life have turned out differently? Would I hate him more than I hated him for leaving us?

“Do you think Dad made the right choice?”

Mom resumed chopping at a leisurely pace. “I don't know, sweetie, but I think we're doing pretty well without him. Everything happens for a reason.”

  •  •  •  

The Calypso High winter carnival was held in the school's senior parking lot. Gone were the cars and neatly lined spaces, replaced by game booths and food booths and a Ferris wheel that looked like it had barely passed its last safety inspection. The cold weather had stuck around, but the heat from the bonfire and the press of bodies made me wish I'd worn shorts rather than jeans and a button-down shirt.

Audrey spent the drive describing her mother's next invention: an office chair that grew more uncomfortable the longer you sat in it. It was supposed to remind cubicle workers to stand and stretch every hour, but it sounded like an ergonomic torture device. I did my best to camouflage my anxiety by singing along to the stupid songs on the radio. I wasn't thrilled with the idea of spending the evening surrounded by my peers, most of whom I imagined whispering “Space Boy” as they passed. There were too many dark corners to hide in, too many shadows to launch punches from. Still, I tried to enjoy myself.

We ran from booth to booth, looking for trouble. I made a valiant effort to win a stuffed whale by pitching a ball at a pyramid of bottles, but never managed to knock down more than two. Audrey, however, had perfect aim, and dunked Jay Oh into a tank of freezing water. Seeing him shiver and sputter wasn't exactly revenge, but it didn't suck, either.

Somewhere along the way, my fake smile became real. I was with my best friend, and no one could hurt me. I didn't even mind when she had to leave to work the debate team's booth—for two dollars, they'd try to help you win any argument. I wandered through the maze of booths and tents, thinking how much Jesse would have adored the spectacle of it all. He loved anything loud and manic. The laughter and smiles of crowds had given him strength, whereas they drained me even when I enjoyed them.

The Calypso Crooners were hosting a karaoke booth, and I couldn't listen to one more off-key rendition of “Summer Nights,” so I ended up on the far side of the carnival, where it was quieter. I noticed a blue-striped tent with a meticulously painted sign that read:
CALYPSO HIGH ART GALLERY
. Diego had mentioned an art show, and I wondered if any of his paintings were on display. I had thirty minutes to kill before Audrey rejoined me, so I decided to take a peek inside.

The outside of the tent may have been dingy, but the inside was wondrous. Framed art hung from the walls and was displayed on freestanding easels. A sculpture of Medusa that bore an eerie resemblance to Principal DeShields haunted a space by the entrance, glowering at all who passed; a cityscape constructed of cigarette butts had attracted a crowd of admirers; and a painting of an ocean sunrise caught my attention. It was so realistic, I could hear the waves and smell the salt water. Each piece of art had a little placard indicating the artist and name of the work. I didn't want to admit I was looking for one bearing Diego's name, but I was. I finally found it in the back of the tent, beside an eight-by-ten painting in a simple black frame.

Diego had painted a boy sitting cross-legged in a dark room. He was naked, with shadows for underwear and cracked cement for skin. Sections of his arms, legs, and shoulders had crumbled, revealing a core of rebar rather than bone. As if hinged, the boy's skull hung open, and the hollow space inside was crowded with familiar faces. I recognized my mom, Nana, Charlie and Zooey cradling a tiny bundle between them, Ms. Faraci, and Audrey. Jesse's translucent face peered back at me too. It took me a moment to notice, but hidden in the back stood an algae-skinned alien with marble-black eyes mounted on wobbly stalks. The boy's hand hovered over a button, and his lips bore a cheeky Mona Lisa smile, as if he were hoarding all the secrets of the universe and would never share.

It was me. I tried to digest the details, but there were so many. Rather than beating in my chest, Diego had painted my heart as cut from the night sky—full of stars—and pinned to the concrete skin of my upper left arm, and a crow hovered overhead, so dark it nearly blended into the background. I could have peeled back the layers of meaning for hours and not discovered them all. This was how Diego saw me. I was Henry Denton and I was Space Boy. I was broken and I was beautiful. I was nothing and I was everything. I didn't matter to the universe, but I mattered to him.

The person in that painting would have pressed the button. The person in that painting with the steel bones and legions in his skull would have saved Jesse. The person in that painting would have fought back in the showers, he would have told the police who had attacked him. The person in that painting wasn't real.

An average-size human being jumping out of an airplane will reach 99 percent of terminal velocity—approximately 122 miles per hour—within about fifteen seconds. If the body remains horizontal, the air resistance gives the illusion of floating. That's how I've felt since meeting Diego. Like I was floating. But I'd been falling the entire time.

A hand on my shoulder. “Henry?”

Diego.

“Henry, are you—”

“That's not me.”

Diego's hand slid away. The ground was rushing to meet me. I was falling and falling. I was running.

But I could never run far or fast enough to escape the impact because gravity is inevitable.

  •  •  •  

Vega is the brightest star in the constellation Lyra, and the third brightest star in the northern hemisphere. Lyra is traditionally associated with the Greek musician Orpheus, though it is also sometimes referred to as King Arthur's Harp. Upon the death of Orpheus's wife, Eurydice, he marched into the Underworld and played his lyre for Hades until the lord of Death, so moved, agreed to return his wife. The hitch was that Orpheus was forbidden from looking backward until he was clear of the dread god's domain. Failure to abide by this one rule would nullify his victory, and Eurydice would be lost forever. Orpheus looked back. Orpheus was an asshole.

I, however, did not look back. Not even once I reached the football field.

I sat on the bleachers and buried my face in my hands, crying until I couldn't cry anymore, wondering how I'd fucked everything up. I wasn't the person Diego thought I was. I could never be that person. I hadn't even pressed the goddamn button. I screamed as loud as I could, letting the noise explode from my throat and ripple across the world. I didn't care who heard me.

“You don't answer my texts anymore, Space Boy.” Marcus startled me when he sauntered up behind me. I hopped to my feet and scanned the surrounding area for Adrian or Jay, but either they were well hidden or Marcus was alone.

“Go away.”

Marcus climbed the bleachers and sat next to where I was standing, leaving space between us. His face was drawn and pale, but he still looked good in jeans and a V-neck sweater. “Listen, about that thing in the hallway . . . That wasn't me. I didn't know about that.”

I touched my eye involuntarily. “Whatever, Marcus. I'm not in the mood.” I marched down off the bleachers toward the football field, hoping he wouldn't follow me. But he did. I turned around and shouted, “Leave me alone!”

“I miss spending time with you, Henry.”

“Publicly humiliating and attacking me was a bizarre way to show it. A box of chocolates might have been more appropriate.”

“I'm sorry.” The funny thing is that I believed him. Jesse had faked being happy, Diego had hidden his past from me, but Marcus had always told me the truth. Even when he beat me up, it was honest. He pulled a flask from his pocket and offered it to me. When I didn't take it, he drank from it first and offered it to me again. Drinking was the last thing I needed, but I didn't want to feel anything anymore, so I accepted the flask. I don't know what it was, but it burned my throat.

I sat down on the grass and buried my face in my hands. “Why are you being nice to me, Marcus? Why now?”

“Do you want to know the truth?” He passed me the flask again, and I swallowed a couple of gulps, feeling the alcohol loosen my limbs and my brain.

“Sure.” I was only half listening. I could still hear the distant sounds of the carnival, but it occurred to me how isolated we were.

Marcus sat across from me and pulled his feet in so he was sitting cross-legged. “I'm not strong like you, Henry. My parents expect me to be their perfect son; my friends expect me to be Mr. Popular. It's so hard to be everything to everyone. I feel stretched thin sometimes. You're the only person who doesn't expect anything from me.”

I sat up and tried to clear my head, but my thoughts were stuck in a pool of tar, and I couldn't pull them out. “You're drunk. You don't know what you're saying.”