We Are the Ants (9 page)

“What about your dad?”

“Not around.” I was content to let it drop there, but Diego had this way of looking at me that made me keep talking, like I was afraid to let the silence creep up between us. “My parents divorced when I was younger, and my father disappeared. I haven't heard from him in years.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Diego had eaten most of what he'd bought, but there was still some potpie he was eyeing like he couldn't decide whether to finish it. “Did you stay at the party after I decided to see how much of my foot I could shove in my mouth? I tried to find you, but that house is huge. I got lost in a closet for an hour. It was fun.”

“About as much fun as a throbbing hemorrhoid.”

“Tell me how you really feel.”

The last thing I wanted to be reminded of was Marcus's party. “I don't really do parties.”

“They're not my thing either.”

“What
is
your thing?”

“Painting.”

“That's right. You're an artist.”

“When you say it, it sounds like an insult.”

“Artists always seem so self-involved. Everything is about
their
art.” I chuckled to let him know I was teasing. “I mean, come on. What's up with all the self-portraits?”

Diego was quiet for a moment, but the empty space was filled by the chaotic noise from other tables. I hoped I hadn't offended him. “Artists have to learn how to paint what's in the mirror, even if what they see is a total shit show.” He gave in and scooped up the last bite of potpie. “If you can't paint yourself honestly, everything else you paint will be a lie too.”

“I didn't realize artists were so self-aware.”

“Yeah, well, being self-aware only means that we
know
we're assholes.” Diego shrugged and pushed his empty tray to the side. “Anyway, that's what my ex-girlfriend used to tell me.”

“Ex-g-girlfriend?” I tried not to stutter, but I couldn't help it, and ended up drooling. “Shit.” I forced a laugh and wiped my lip with a napkin.

Diego pretended not to notice, but I caught him grinning. “Her name was Leigh. She'd tell you I was the biggest prick in North America. Probably the world.”

Having recovered from my sudden inability to keep saliva in my mouth, I said, “Did you break up because you moved here?”

“Nah, we were done way before that.”

“Sorry.”

“I'm not. She was only using me for my big prick. Didn't I mention that?”

I snorted and laughed. The students at the other end of the table glared at me, which only made it harder to stop. “I know the feeling.”

“You got a . . . ?”

“Not really,” I said. “Maybe. I don't know. He's a big prick too.” I considered telling Diego about Marcus, but I hardly knew him, and it wasn't my secret to tell. It would destroy Marcus if word got out he was hooking up with Space Boy. “Why'd you move to Calypso?”

Rather than answer, Diego looked at the table and the walls and over my shoulder—everywhere but at me.

“I get the feeling you don't want to talk about it. I was only trying to make conversation,” I said.

“It's complicated.” I thought Diego was going to explain, but instead he said, “What do you do for fun around here?”

Diego's unwillingness to discuss why he moved from Colorado to a shit hole town in the limp dick of the nation only made me more curious. Maybe he was shipped off by his parents as punishment for robbing liquor stores or cheating on history exams. Or maybe he was a secret government operative whose mission was to befriend me and discover what I knew about the sluggers. That actually made more sense than anything else. Still, I hated secrets. Jesse had kept secrets. Maybe if he hadn't, he'd still be alive. Only, Diego wasn't Jesse. Diego was nobody to me, and I didn't want to piss him off by prying.

“You already went to the biggest party of the year. What more do you want?”

Diego leaned back in his chair. “Something exciting.”

“What'd you do in Colorado?”

“Stuff.”

“Stuff?”

“Yeah,” Diego said. “Hung out with friends, avoided my parents. Stuff. All of it very exciting. I miss it.” He looked far away, like he'd traveled there in the silence between our words. That's the problem with memories: you can visit them, but you can't live in them.

“Then why don't you go back?” I regretted asking the moment the question left my mouth. Shadows crowded Diego's face, and every muscle tensed up. Shoulders, fists, cheeks. I cleared my throat and said, “All we've got here are beaches, but you already know about those.”

“Let's go.”

“Where?”

Diego grabbed his tray, already half standing. “The beach. We'll bail on class, and you can show me around Calypso. I've got a car. We'll get some sandwiches and hang out.”

Jesse and I skipped once in tenth grade. It was the first week he got his driver's license. Vice Principal Marten nearly caught us trying to sneak off campus, but Jesse's car was faster than Marten's golf cart. We drank beer on the beach and lay in each other's arms until the sun was only a memory burned into our brains. He'd said, “You know, I think I love you, Henry Denton,” and I believed him. I believed all of Jesse's lies.

“I can't.”

Diego slumped back into his seat. “It's cool.”

“Maybe some other time.”

Rather than giving me a guilt trip, Diego said, “Any time,” and I knew he meant it. “So, tell me about these aliens of yours.”

I twisted a bit of sandwich wrap around the end of my index finger, watching it turn grape red. Diego snapped his fingers in front of my face. “I'm not making fun of you.”

“I didn't—”

“You can't bullshit a bullshitter.”

“It's not something I talk about.”

“Then you should write about it.”

“Drop it.”

Diego was either oblivious or determined or simply a giant prick like his ex-girlfriend had said. “Writing's like painting. You have to write about yourself before you can write about anything else.”

I was done talking, but I couldn't figure out how to shut Diego up. It was like something inside of him had malfunctioned, and he was going to keep rambling until his batteries died.

“There's an amazing world out there for you to discover, Henry Denton, but you have to be willing to discover yourself first.”

The bell rang, saving me, and we all rose like Pavlovian dogs, eager to run to our next classes. Except Diego. He was still sitting, like he was waiting for me to say something, but I didn't know what. Finally I said, “What if I don't give a shit about the world?”

Diego gathered our trash and frowned. “I'd say that's pretty fucking sad.”

“Why?”

“Because the world is so beautiful.”

Nana leaned on the shopping cart as we strolled through Publix, ignoring the other customers who shot us pissed-off glares every time she blocked the aisle to scan the shelves for some item from the crumpled list in her hand.

“What about pork chops?” she asked. “I could stuff them. Maybe fry some okra.”

“Sounds good.” I grabbed a jar of spaghetti sauce and tossed it in the cart, which was filling up rapidly because Nana couldn't decide what she wanted for dinner. So far she'd suggested tacos, salmon with spinach, shepherd's pie, and lasagna, and we'd gathered the ingredients for each. “Did you teach Mom how to cook?”

Nana kept shuffling down the aisle as if she hadn't heard me. I started to repeat the question when she said, “Eleanor loved to watch me in the kitchen when she was a little girl, but I was never much of a cook. My grandmother passed her recipes to my mother, and she passed them to me, but your mother doesn't need recipes. She's quite gifted.”

I grimaced. “So the Lewis women have been inflicting that meatloaf on their families for four generations?”

Nana smacked my arm. “For your information, your mother loves my meatloaf.”

“Get real. She spits it out in her napkin and flushes it down the toilet. Haven't you ever noticed how often she visits the can on meatloaf nights?”

Nana hit me again, harder. “That's for lying to your grandmother.”

I smiled and hugged her. She felt small and fragile, the way ice over a lake thins as the weather turns warm. Cracks were beginning to appear on the surface, but she'd always been a stubborn constant in my life, and I refused to count her out.

“It was your father,” Nana said as we moved from one aisle to the next. “He encouraged your mother to become a chef when they were still in high school.”

“If she loves it so much, she should quit waiting tables and get a job cooking.”

“Cooking reminds her of him.” Nana stopped the cart and seized a box of couscous, ignoring the frustrated grunt of a red-faced man as he squeezed past us. “Sometimes, Henry, remembering hurts too much.” She patted my arm, her ­wrinkled fingers like dry carrots.

“Then they shouldn't have gotten divorced.”

“Life rarely works out the way we plan it.”

“He left because of me, didn't he?”

Nana stopped pushing the cart. She leaned on it heavily like it was the only thing holding her up. “Why would you think that?”

“It was my fault. I know it.”

“You know that's not true, Henry.” Her words were sharp, and they stung more than her slap. She continued walking. “Now, enough of this. Tell me one good thing that happened to you today.”

At first I thought she was joking, but she was lucid and totally serious. “Nothing happened.”

“One thing, Henry.”

“It was a boring day.”

Nana motioned for me to grab a gallon of milk as we passed the dairy case. “When I was sick—so sick, I thought I would die—sometimes the highlight of my day was that I hadn't soiled myself.”

“Gross!”

“When the days are darkest, dear, you latch on to happiness wherever you find it.”

Mom hadn't let me or Charlie see Nana when she was going through chemotherapy, and we didn't talk about it after, either, but the specter of death had haunted us for months. Even when her doctors said her cancer was in remission, I still felt the weight of death in Nana's house. I figured if she could find joy during those terrible times, I could give her one good thing. “I had lunch with this guy. It was pretty okay.”

“Does this young man have a name?”

“Diego Vega.” I liked the way it rolled off my tongue. “He's new. We've been eating together the past few days.”

Nana tossed creamed corn and green beans and artichoke hearts into our cart. “I like new. New is mysterious. Tell me about him.”

Lunch with Diego had become a thing, against my better judgment, but with each day that passed, I learned more about him. He lives with his sister, Viviana, who is a neat freak; his favorite cereal is Fruity Oatholes; he loves superhero movies, even that train wreck
Green Lantern
; he drives a twelve-year-old Jetta named Please Start that frequently doesn't; and his greatest fear is being murdered by his time-traveling self from the future. We both had things we refused to discuss—I steered away from asking him why he moved, and he didn't bring up the sluggers—but Diego had become part of my life by default, and I didn't hate it. In fact, I began looking forward to lunch, to discussing our favorite bands and which teachers were probably doing it in the break room.

“There's not much to tell.”

“Don't lie to your grandma.”

I knew she was trying, but there was nothing going on, and nothing likely to happen. “He's just a friend, Nana.”

“Why?”

“He had a girlfriend, which means he's probably not looking for a boyfriend. Honestly, neither am I.”

“Well, a regular old friend is still a good thing to have. Since Jesse passed, I've been worried about you. And what happened to the young woman who used to come around? She always brushed my hair.”

“It's complicated. Everything's complicated.” Only, sometimes I wonder if it has to be. I could call Audrey anytime, and we could pick up our friendship like nothing happened. But something
did
happen. Jesse is dead, and it's my fault or her fault or both our faults. There's no room in my life for Audrey in this After Jesse world.

“Still, Charlie—”

“Henry.”

Nana frowned. “Henry's dead.”

“No, I'm Henry. Your grandson.”

“That's not funny, Charlie.” Nana shook her head and kept on like I hadn't interrupted her. “It's nice that you've made a new friend. You should invite him over for dinner.”

It seemed pointless to even consider it. Pointless to put in the effort to get to know him when the world was going to end. Except, I could imagine him sitting between Mom and Nana, kicking me under the table as my brother unleashed his most embarrassing stories about me. I could picture Diego sitting where Jesse once had, and that stirred up emotions—both pleasant and painful—I wasn't equipped to deal with in the cereal aisle of the grocery store.

“Maybe,” I said. “Just so long as you promise not to cook meatloaf.”

Charlie banged on the bathroom door while I brushed my teeth. Every time the mirror fogged over, I had to clear it with the palm of my hand, which didn't really help. I hadn't seen much of my brother since the big baby announcement, which meant my life had been quieter and more bruise-free than usual. He'd spent most of the last month with Zooey or couch surfing at various friends' houses, but now that he was back home, he seemed hell-bent on making up for lost time.

“Open the door! I'm gonna be late for work.”

I spit a mouthful of toothpaste into the sink. “I'll be out in a second.” I'd been brushing my teeth for the last five minutes, and didn't have anything else I needed to do in the bathroom, but I still took my time, rinsing my mouth and shaving and making sure no stray boogers were hanging out of my nose.