Antsy Does Time

  It worked. Once the glass was drained, my words were drowned. The rest of the meal was filled with an unnatural silence, in which no one made eye contact with anyone else, least of all with Mr. Ümlaut. I made it through the meal listening to clinking silverware, and the ticking of the clock, until Gunnar finally rapped me on the arm and said, “The dust bowl awaits.”

  I had never been happier to get away from a dinner table, and it occurred to me that this was the first time in the Ümlaut home that it felt as if someone was dying.

  It was dark now, with nothing but the back-porch bulb to light up the backyard. We sprayed until both drums of herbicide were empty. Gunnar had brought with him the silence of the dinner table. It drove me nuts, because, just like with his father, I had no idea what he was feeling or thinking—and although I swore to myself I wouldn’t bring it up, I couldn’t leave without asking Gunnar the big question.

  “So what’s the deal with your dad?”

  Gunnar laughed at that. “The deal,” he said. “That’s funny.” And that’s all he said. He didn’t tell me that it was none of my business, he didn’t tell me to go take a flying leap. He just brushed it off like the question had never been asked.

  He took a quick glance at the instructions on his herbicide canister. “Says here that the plants will all be dead in five days, and then it should be easy to pull them out.”

  “We could sign over two extra days of life to the plants if you want to wait until next weekend,” I said, and laughed at my own joke.

  “That’s not funny.”

  “Sorry.”

  To be honest, I had no clue what I was and wasn’t allowed to laugh at anymore.

  The moment was far too uncomfortable, so I tried to salvage it. “Hey, by the way, I think there are still a few people at school willing to donate months, if you still want them.”

  “Why wouldn’t I want them?” he asked. “As Nathaniel Hawthorne said, ‘Scrounging for precious moments is the most primary human endeavor.’”

  He was always so matter-of-fact about it, you could almost forget what was happening to him. Like the end of his life was just an inconvenience.

  “Does it ever . . . scare you?” I dared to ask him.

  He took a while before he answered. “A lot of things scare me,” he said. Then he looked at his unfinished gravestone in the middle of the dying yard. “No doubt about it—I’m going to have to start over.”

  Before I left, I stopped by Kjersten’s room. She was sitting at her desk, doing homework. I suppose she was the type of student who would do homework on a Saturday. I knocked even though the door was open, because there’s this instinct we’re born with that says you don’t walk into a girl’s room uninvited, and even when you’re invited, you don’t walk in too far unless, of course, you’re related to each other, or her parents aren’t home.

  “Hi,” I said. “Whatcha doin’?”

  “Chemistry,” she said.

  “Are you studying whether we got chemistry?”

  She laughed. I have to say, this whole you’re-attractive-when-you’re-embarrassed thing was great. It was like a free license to say all the things I’d never actually have the guts to say to a girl, because the more embarrassed it made me to say it, the more it worked in my favor.

  She turned her chair slightly toward me as I stepped in. Still riding on the fumes of my chemistry line, I thought I might actually dredge up the guts to sit on the edge of her bed . . . Then I realized if I did, I wouldn’t be much for conversation, because the phrase My God, I’m sitting on Kjersten’s bed would keep repeating over and over in my mind like one of Christina’s Himalayan mantras, and I might start to levitate, which would probably freak Kjersten out.

  So instead of sitting down, I kind of just stood there, looking around.

  “Nice room,” I told her. And it was: it said a lot about her. There was a NeuroToxin concert poster on the wall, next to a piece of art that even I could recognize as Van Gogh. There was a mural on her sliding closet doors that she clearly had painted herself. Angels playing tennis. At least I think they were angels. They could have been seagulls—she wasn’t that great of an artist.

  “I like your mural,” I said.

  She grinned slightly. “No you don’t, but thanks for saying so.” Like I said, people can pick up my emotions like a pod-cast. “I like painting, but it’s not what I’m good at,” she told me. “That’s okay, though, because if I was good, then I’d always worry if I was good enough. This way I can enjoy doing it, and I never have to care about being judged.”

  “In that case,” I said, “I really DO like your mural. I wish I had the guts to do things I stink at.”

  She took a measured look at me. “Like what?” she asked.

  Now I was put on the spot, because there were so many things to chose from. I thought of her on the debate team, and finally settled on, “I’m not very good speaking in front of an audience.”

  “It just takes practice. I could teach you.”

  “Sure, why not?” I was thrilled by the prospect of her coaching me in verbal expression, even though me being a public speaker was about as likely as angels playing tennis. Or seagulls. “I promise to give speeches even worse than you paint,” I told her.

  She laughed, I laughed, and then the moment became awkward.

  “So . . .” I said.

  “So . . .” she said.

  What happened next was kind of like jumping off the ten-meter platform at the Olympic pool they built when someone in public planning got high and actually believed the Summer Olympics might come to Brooklyn. A couple of years ago, I stood on that platform for five minutes that seemed like an hour, while my friends watched. In the end the only way I was able to jump was to imagine that I was a nonexistent ultracool version of myself. That way I could trick my self-preservation instinct into believing it wasn’t actually me jumping.

  Standing there in front of Kjersten, I dug down, found ultracool Antsy sipping on a latte somewhere in my head, and pulled him forth.

  “So I was wondering if maybe you’d like go out sometime,” I heard myself say. “A movie, or dinner, or trip to Paris, that kinda thing.”

  “Paris sounds nice,” Kjersten said. “Will we fly first class?”

  “No way!” I told her. “It’s by private jet, or nothing.” I was dazzling myself with my own unexpected wit, but then ultracool Antsy left for Starbucks, and I was alone to deal with the fallout of his cleverness.

  “A movie would be nice,” she said.

  “Great . . . uh . . . yeah . . . uh . . . right.” This is like the guy who lifts a five-hundred-pound barbell, then realizes he has no idea how to put it down without dying in the process. “A movie’s a good choice,” I told her. “It’s dark, so people you know won’t see us together.”

  “Why would that matter?”

  “Well, you know—you being older and all.”

  “Antsy,” she said, in a lecturing tone that really made her sound older, “that doesn’t matter to me.”

  “Well, good,” I said, enjoying the prospect of walking into the multiplex with Kjersten. “And anyway, a movie-theater date will give me lots of great opportunities to be embarrassed.”

  “I certainly hope so,” she said, smirking. Which of course made me go red, which of course made her smirk even more.

  This was all going so well! It would have been perfect, except for the fact that her father was weird, and her brother was dying. She must have read what I was thinking, because her smile faded and she looked away.

  “I’m sorry about my father,” she said.

  I shrugged, playing dumb. “He didn’t do anything.”

  “He came home,” she said. “These days, that’s enough.”

  Even though I was curious, I didn’t want to ask what she meant, just in case she didn’t want to tell. I looked at the mural, giving her time to gather her thoughts. Then she said, “He was a partner in a law firm, but a few months ago the firm fell apart. He hasn’t
worked since.”

  “But he’s gone all the time—what does he do all day, look for work?”

  And Kjersten said, “We don’t know.”

  7 Recipes for Disaster from the Undisputed Master of Time, Live on Your TV Screen

  After my Kjersten encounter, I walked home, nearly getting run over twice on the way, because my head was stuck in an alternate universe. Everything Ümlaut was one step removed from reality; the way they dealt with Gunnar’s illness; the Mystery of the Disappearing Dad—even the fact that Kjersten was going to date me was weird, although it was the kind of weirdness I needed more of in my life.

  My own father’s arrival at home later that same night didn’t raise the homeland security index, as it did in the Ümlaut household. That was mainly because everyone but me was already in bed.

  “Hi, Antsy,” he said as he shuffled into the kitchen. “You’re up late.”

  “Just came down for a drink,” I told him, even though I’d been stalking around the house all night with thoughts of Kjersten and Gunnar clogging up my brain. We sat down at the table. He grabbed himself some leftovers from the fridge, and I ate a little, even though I wasn’t hungry. I thought it was strange how he can be at a restaurant all night, then come home and have to eat leftovers.

  “I heard your friend is real sick,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

  That surprised me. “I didn’t know you knew about it.”

  “Your sister keeps me informed on things.”

  I could tell he wanted to say something meaningful. Thoughtful. But whenever he opened his mouth, all that came out was a yawn, which made me yawn, and pretty soon whatever he wanted to say got KO’d by the sandman. We left the dirty dishes in the sink, too tired to put them in the dishwasher, and said our good nights.

  It was like this more and more between us—more yawning, and less talking. For my father, the restaurant was like the crabgrass in Gunnar’s backyard. It had taken over everything. Even on Monday, which was supposed to be his day off, he would do taxes, or go to the fish market to get a jump on the fancy Manhattan restaurants. I think I liked it better when he had a mindless corporate job. His work was miserable, but when he wasn’t working, he did stuff. Now, instead of a job and a paycheck, he had a business and a “calling”—as if feeding Brooklyn was a holy mission.

  As I went to bed that night, I thought about Mr. Ümlaut, and the weirdness that filled that house like a gas leak. If nothing else, I could be thankful that my own family weirdness was not lethal.

  I got a call from Lexie on the way to school the next morning.

  “I want to make sure you’re free on Saturday the nineteenth,” she said.

  “Let me check with my social secretary.” I glanced over at some fat guy sitting next to me on the bus. “Yeah, I’m free.” And then I realized with a little private glee that I might actually need to keep a social calendar now, if things worked out with Kjersten.

  The nineteenth was the first day of Christmas vacation, when rich people went off to exotic places where they hate Americans. Sure enough, Lexie said, “My parents are flying me to the Seychelles, to spend the holidays with them,” and she added “again,” as if it would make me feel better to know she was legitimately embarrassed by her lap of luxury. “They haven’t bothered to visit since the summer, so I have to go—but before I do, I’ve planned a special adventure for Grandpa.”

  The phone signal kept going in and out—all I heard was something about a team of engineers and lots of steel cable.

  “Sounds like fun,” I told her. Sure, I could do it. It’s not like “vacation” was in my family’s vocabulary since the restaurant opened. Then she got to the real reason for her call.

  “Oh, and by the way, I’m having dinner at the restaurant with Raoul, and you’re invited.”

  By “the restaurant,” I knew she meant Crawley’s, her grandfather’s first restaurant. By “you’re invited,” she could have meant a whole lot of things.

  “Just me?” I asked.

  “No. You . . . and a date . . . if you like.”

  Now I knew what “you’re invited” actually meant. “Wow—an invitation to a five-star restaurant for me and a date. Wouldn’t it be easier to put one of those electronic tags on my ear before you release me into the wild?”

  She huffed into the phone.

  “Admit it—you just want to keep track of me.”

  She didn’t deny it, she just continued the hard sell. “Don’t you think whatserface will be impressed if you take her out for a fancy lobster dinner on your first date?”

  “How do you know it’s our first date?”

  “Is it?”

  “Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t.”

  She huffed again. I was really enjoying this.

  “C’mon,” she said, “are you going to turn down a free meal at one of Brooklyn’s most expensive restaurants?”

  “Ooh! Manipulating me with money,” I teased. “You’re sounding more and more like your grandfather every day.”

  “Oh, shut up!”

  “Admit it—you’re curious to know what kind of girl would kiss me in a school hallway.”

  At last she caved. “Well, do you blame me? And besides, I really want you to meet Raoul. It’s important to me.”

  “Why? It’s not like you need my approval to be dating him.”

  “Well,” she said after a moment’s thought, “I’ll give you mine, if you give me yours.”

  Lexie was right about me not being able to turn down the invitation. She had pushed my buttons, and we both knew it. It wasn’t the money thing—it was the fact that I desperately wanted to impress Kjersten.

  I arrived at school in full grapple with the concept of going on a date with an ex-girlfriend, a prospective girlfriend, and a guy who clicks. I was so distracted, I had to go back to my locker twice for things I forgot, making me late for my first period. Even before I sat in my seat, the teacher handed me a yellow slip summoning me to the principal’s office for crimes unknown. People saw the yellow slip and reflexively leaned away.

  This was my first experience in a high school principal’s office. I don’t know what I was expecting that would be different from middle school. Fancier chairs? A minibar? I wasn’t scared, like I used to be when I was younger—I was more annoyed by the inconvenience of whatever punishment was forthcoming.

  Our principal, Mr. Sinclair, tried to be an intimidating administrator, but he just couldn’t sell it. It was his hair that undermined him every step of the way. Everyone called it “The Magic Comb-over.” Because if you were looking at him straight-on—the way he might see himself in a mirror—he actually appeared to have hair. But when viewed from any other angle, it became clear that he had only twelve extremely long strands woven strategically back and forth over a scalp that had suffered its own human dust bowl.

  It was even harder to take him seriously today, because as I stepped into his office I could see his tie was flipped over his shoulder. There’s only one reason a guy has his tie flipped over his shoulder. If you haven’t figured it out, you don’t deserve to be told.

  So I’m sitting there, trying to decide which is worse: pointing out that his tie is over his shoulder and embarrassing him, or not saying anything, which would make it even more embarrassing once he realized it for himself. Either way he’d take it out on me, so this was a lose-lose situation. What made it worse is that I couldn’t stop smirking about it.

  He poured himself a glass of sparkling water, offering me some, but I just shook my head.

  “Mr. Bonano,” he said in his serious administrative voice, “do you know why I’ve called you in?”

  I couldn’t take my eyes off his tie. I snickered and tried to disguise it as a cough. I sensed myself about to launch into a full-on giggle fit, and I prayed for a light fixture to fall from the ceiling and knock me unconscious before I could—because then I’d become sympathetic.

  “I said, do you know why I called you in?”

  I nodded.


  “Good. Now let’s talk about this situation with Gunnar Ümlaut.”

  “Your tie’s over your shoulder,” I said.

  There was a brief moment where I could tell he was thinking, Should I just leave it there, and insist it’s there for a reason? But in the end, he sighed, and flipped the tie down . . . right into the glass of sparkling water.

  By now, my eyes are tearing from holding back the laughter—and then he says, “I never liked this tie anyway,” so he takes it off, and drops it in the trash.

  That’s when I lost it. Not a giggle fit. No—this was an all-out raging guffaw fest; the kind that leaves your insides hurting and your limbs quivering when you’re done.

  “HahahahahahahahaI’msorry,” I squealed. “Hahahahahahaha can’thelpithahahahahaha.”

  “I’ll wait,” said the man who had the power to expel me.

  I tried to stop by tensing all my muscles, but that didn’t work. Finally I made myself imagine the look on my mother’s face when she found out I was expelled from the New York City Public School System for laughing at my principal, and that image drowned my laughter just as effectively as the sparkling water had drowned his tie.

  “Are you done?”

  I took a deep breath. “Yes, I think so.”

  He waited until the last of my convulsions faded, pouring the glass of sparkling water into a bonsai at the edge of his desk. “What’s life if we can’t laugh at ourselves?” he said. Oddly, I found myself respecting him all of a sudden, for the way he kept his cool.

  “How many hours?” I asked, not wanting to draw this out any longer than necessary.

  “I’m not sure I understand the question?”

  “I got detention, right? Because of the stuff with Gunnar. I just want to know how many hours? Does it include Saturday school? Do my parents have to know, or can we keep this between you and me?”

  “I don’t think you understand, Anthony.” And then he smiled. It’s not a good thing when principals smile.