Antsy Does Time

14. Nobody Likes Me, Everybody Hates Me, Think I’ll Eat Some Worms

Christmas came and went uneventfully, which, considering the previous set of events, was a good thing. For reasons that may or may not have been retribution for missing Thanksgiving, most of our relatives had other plans. We could have gone to Philadelphia to be with Mom’s side of the family, but with Aunt Mona coming on Christmas Eve, we had to pass. Then Aunt Mona calls at the last minute to tell us she can’t come till after New Year’s. Typical.

“It wouldn’t be a visit from Mona,” Mom said, “if she didn’t ruin the plans we made around her.”

“She did us a favor,” Dad responded, because he was simply too burned out to travel all the way to Philly anyway. Besides, he never spoke out against his sister, no matter what the situation. It was a sore spot with Mom.

“You watch,” said Mom, “when she does come, she’ll show up without any warning, and expect us to drop everything.”

Christmas morning lacked the magic it usually had. At first I thought it was just me getting older, but the more I thought about it, the more I realized that wasn’t the case. The tree was trimmed better than ever—but that was just because Christina and I worked hard to make it so. There were fewer presents under the tree, since there wasn’t a horde of relatives—but that would have been okay. What really made it hard was that Dad was clearly not present in the moment, as they say. His thoughts were on the restaurant, his future, and I guess our futures, too. He was all preoccupied, and that made Mom preoccupied with him. I could tell that Mom resented the air of anxiety in our lives lately, but still did everything she could to get Dad to relax. I wanted to tell him to just get over it, but how could I? After all, I was the cause of his latest stress bomb.

The day after Christmas I went to give Kjersten her Christmas gift. Was it crazy for me to think we could have a somewhat normal relationship, in spite of all the abnormal stuff around us? Going there didn’t feel right. I wasn’t ready to face Gunnar—I didn’t know how to talk to him, because I knew every word out of my mouth would be another way of asking why. Why did he need to be sick? Why did he let it go so far? Why did he have to draw me into it? The Great Gunnar Rally was planned for the day after we got back to school. The speech I was supposed to deliver hung over my head—and I resented Gunnar for putting me in that position.

When I arrived on their street that day, there was no denying the neighborhood’s collateral damage. I moved past looming lawns of death, trying to gauge how bad it was. The dust bowl had already spread halfway down the block. All the evergreens were yellow, and everything that should have been yellow was that strange bruise shade of brown. Men were standing out front looking at the devastation, and their wives looked on, watching to see if their men would break.

The only thing green was, ironically, right on the Ümlaut door. A big green Christmas wreath ... but when I got closer, I could see it was plastic.

Gunnar answered the door.

“I’m here to see your sister,” I told him.

He looked at the wrapped package in my hands. “She’s upstairs.” Then he walked away. I should have let him go, but whether I like it or not, my mouth has a mind of its own.

“You’re still not cyanotic,” I said to him. “But if it’s that important to you, you can buy some blue lipstick and pretend that you are.”

He turned to me then. I could tell he was hurt, even though it didn’t show in his face. Part of me felt glad about it, and another part of me felt ashamed for saying something so nasty. I found myself mad at both parts.

Gunnar gave me a cold gaze and said, “That would have been much more effective if you bought some for me as a Christmas gift,” then he left.

“Wish I had thought of it,” I shouted after him. Actually, I had thought of it, but I wouldn’t sink so low as to get him a cruel gift. Besides, I didn’t want to be seen buying blue lipstick. Even if no one saw me, there are surveillance cameras.

I found Kjersten up in her room watching Moeba, a zany cartoon about ethnically diverse single-celled organisms in Earth’s primordial ooze. It seemed odd that she’d be watching this. In fact, she was so absorbed, it took her a moment to notice I was there.

“Antsy!”

“Hi.” It came out sounding like a one-word apology.

She stood up and gave me a hug. “You’re not having much luck with photographers lately, are you?” I could see the special Antsy edition of the New York Post on her desk.

“No,” I admitted, “and now there’s an animated version on the YouTube.”

“Could be worse,” she said, although downloadable e-humiliation is about as low as it gets.

The moment became awkward, and she glanced back at the TV, where Moeba was punching out a dim-witted Paramecium.

“I used to love this show,” she said.

“So did I,” I told her. “When I was, like, eight.”

She sighed. “Things were simpler then.” Then she turned off the TV. “So, is that for me?”

“Oh ... yeah,” I said, handing her the gift. “Merry Christmas.” Again, I sounded like I was apologizing for something. It was annoying.

“Yours is still under the tree,” she said. I hadn’t even noticed a tree downstairs.

She opened up her package, to reveal a NeuroToxin jacket.

“It’s from their Bubonic Nights tour. Look—Jaxon Beale’s autograph is embroidered on the sleeve.”

“I noticed,” Kjersten said. “I love Jaxon Beale!”

In case you’ve been living on a desert island, Jaxon Beale, former guitarist for Death Crab, is the guitarist and lead singer of NeuroToxin.

She thanked me, and put the jacket on. It looked good on her, but then, what didn’t? It made me feel good that I could, at least for a few minutes, break her out of a world of repossessed cars, furious neighbors, and a brother on deathwatch.

“You want to do something today?’ she asked.

To be honest, I hadn’t given the day much thought beyond handing her the jacket. “Sure,” I said. “How about a movie?”

“Something funny,” she said. “Let’s make it something funny.”

“Why don’t you pick—there’s a whole bunch of new movies at the Mondoplex.” Then I added, “You can even drive. I’m over that whole macho thing about riding shotgun with my girlfriend.”

This was, I realized, the first time I used the word “girlfriend” with her. I watched to see if her reaction would be positive, negative, or neutral. It was negative, but not because of the word “girlfriend.” Her problem was with the word “drive.”

“We can’t drive. My dad borrowed my car this morning.”

I wondered if he had borrowed it to go gambling, but decided not to ask. “Your mom could drive us ...”

“My mom’s spending the holiday with family in Sweden, and she parked her car at the airport.”

Why, I wondered, would she choose to pay for airport parking instead of just leaving her car for her husband to use? Again, I decided it was best not to ask. The whole family was a can of worms waiting to happen, and I, for one, was not going to supply the can opener.

“Sweden, huh?” I said. “Sounds like fun—why didn’t you go with her?”

“It’s Sweden, and it’s winter—isn’t that reason enough?”

“I bet there’d be snow.”

“Snow, and ice, and eighteen hours of darkness. I hate it.”

“Well, I’m sure it’s a whole lot better than Christmas in Brooklyn.” She shrugged gloomily, so I tried a different tack. “Well, I’m glad you didn’t go, because now we can see each other all vacation.”

That made her smile, and it wasn’t just a polite smile, it was a real one. I silently reveled in the fact that she actually did want to spend time with me. We bundled up against the windy afternoon, braved the neighborhood dust bowl, and took a bus to the Mondoplex.

***

For several reasons, I will not give a blow-by-blow description of our darkened-movie-theater experience. First of all, it’s none of your business, and secondly, anything you think happened is probably better than what actually did.

But for those of you who have never experienced the phenomenon called a movie-theater date, there are a few general things I can tell you:

1. Your hand completely falls asleep after about fifteen minutes around a girl’s shoulder, especially if she’s taller than you. It’s better just to hold hands.

2. While holding hands, you can’t manage both a tub of popcorn and a drink. One of them is bound to spill. Pray it’s the popcorn.

3. If you ever come within six inches of actually kissing, you will suddenly become more interesting than the movie to the entire audience, including one creep with a laser pointer, who you’ll be ready to kill long before the credits roll.

As for the movie itself, it wasn’t the movie I expected Kjersten to choose. I thought Kjersten might pick a love story, or a foreign film or something . . . instead she chose this lowbrow teen comedy that I might have gone to see with Howie and Ira, but never thought I’d see with her. It wasn’t even one of the better lowbrow movies either. I mean, I’ve enjoyed my share of amazingly stupid movies, but this one was so bad, and so unfunny, it was embarrassing. This was a film that would actually insult Wendell Tiggor’s “intelligence,” and with every dumb, raunchy thing that happened on-screen, I kept expecting her to slap me for the mere fact that I was a guy.

Eighty-six agonizing minutes later, the movie was over and we were walking down the street holding hands—the first time we actually held hands while publicly walking. She didn’t quite tower over me, but the difference was enough for me to be self-conscious about it. Every time someone nearby laughed, I involuntarily snapped my head around like maybe it was directed at us. Kjersten had no such worries.

“Did you like the movie?” she asked.

“It was all right, I guess.”

“I thought it was funny,” she said.

“Yeah.” I searched for something worth saying. “When the fat guy got stuck in the Jell-O-filled swimming pool naked, that was funny.”

“You didn’t like it,” she said, reading right through me.

“Well, it’s just that... I don’t know . . . you’re on the debate team and everything. I thought you’d want to see a movie that would, uh ... broaden my horizons.”

“I’m happy with your horizons just where they are.”

I should have felt good about that. After all, it was unconditional acceptance from my girlfriend . . . but like Gunnar’s “acceptance,” it was all wrong. Not that I wanted her to go through denial, fear, and anger while dating me—although a little bargaining might be fun. The thing is, I knew she chose the movie because she thought I would like it. What did that say about her opinion of me?

Yeah, yeah, I know, guys aren’t supposed to think about stuff like that. I should be happy that I’m successfully playing out of my league, batting a thousand, and have earned bragging rights. I guess that was enough at first, but not anymore. I blame Lexie. She was the one who first broadened my horizons.

Kjersten’s car was in the driveway when we got home, which meant her father was there. I would have gone in, but Kjersten didn’t want to make any waves. She kissed me quickly at the door, ducked inside for a moment, and came out with a long, skinny box, wrapped perfectly, with a golden Christmas bow. “You can open it when you get home,” she said. “I hope you’ll like it.”

And from inside I heard Gunnar shout, “It’s a skateboard.”

She growled in frustration, and handed me the box, accidentally knocking the wreath off the door. Quickly she scrambled to put it back up, but not quickly enough. I got a clear glimpse of the notice pasted to the front door that had been hidden by the wreath. She knew I saw it—but what could she do? She made sure the wreath was hung firmly on the nail, and pretended it hadn’t happened. “See you tomorrow?” she said.

“Yeah ... Yeah, sure, see you tomorrow.”

Before she closed the door, I caught a glimpse of Gunnar watching me from inside, his eyes filled with fatalistic doom, as unnerving as a dozen dying yards.

It was a nice skateboard. High-quality Spitfire wheels, cool design. I sat on my bed that evening, running my fingers over the grip tape surface, and the smooth polished back. I spun the wheels, and listened to the satisfying clatter of the bearings. It was everything you’d want in a skateboard, except for one thing. I didn’t want a skateboard.

See, there’s a time for everything in life—and everyone’s clock is different. There are guys who use skateboards right up until they get their license—after all, it’s a useful mode of transportation. Then there are guys like Skaterdud, to whom skateboarding is like a religion, and they’ll do it all their lives. I’m sure the Dud won’t just fall off that aircraft carrier, he’ll roll off it. But my skateboard phase ended the summer before ninth grade. I kind of outgrew it—and everyone knows the second you outgrow something, it’s like poison for a couple of years, until it becomes historically significant in your life and you can look back on it fondly.

It was all starting to make sense now. Especially after seeing that awful notice plastered on their front door.

HOUSE IN FORECLOSURE RESIDENTS ARE HEREBY GIVEN THIRTY DAYS TO VACATE PREMISES

It was far worse than any field of doom Gunnar and I had created. Thirty days. How do you cope with the world coming down around you, when your parents just seem to be running away? Is it easier to believe that it’s the end of everything rather than face it, and start carving tombstones like Gunnar? Or maybe you just go into full retreat, like Kjersten—who wasn’t interested in bringing me up to her level, but rather wanted to come down to mine—or at least what she thought was my level. Dumb movies, cool skateboards, and awkward fourteen-year-old advances. Because “things were so much simpler then.”

Lexie had been right. Kjersten was dating “the idea” of me.

Could I be what Kjersten needed? Did I want to be? As I sat there running my hands along the edge of the skateboard, I realized that the Ümlaut can of worms was a big old industrial drum, and I was already inside, eating worms left and right.

What the Ümlauts really needed was time—and not the kind I could print out of my computer, but real time. And as for Kjersten, if I really cared about her—and I did—I realized the best I could do was to become “the idea of me” as much as possible for her. I couldn’t give her time, but maybe I could give her a little time travel.

So I got on that skateboard and rode it around and around and around, trying my best, for the rest of Christmas vacation, to recapture the earliest days of fourteen.