We Are the Ants

  I never got tired of being right.

  When my head cleared, I came to the conclusion that the sluggers were screwing with me. It was the only logical explanation. I refused to believe that they had the power to prevent the world’s end but had chosen to leave the decision up to a sixteen-year-old nobody.

  But if it wasn’t a joke, if the choice was mine, then I held the fate of the world in my sweaty hand. The aliens probably didn’t care one way or another.

  “Just to be clear: I have until January twenty-ninth to press the button?”

  EUPHORIA.

  “And if I do, I’ll prevent the planet’s destruction?”

  EUPHORIA.

  “And if I choose not to press it?”

  The earth exploded, the projection disappeared, and the lights died.

  8 September 2015

  I darted across the dawn-drenched lawn in front of my duplex, gushing sweat in the muggy Florida heat and shielding my privates with a trash can lid I’d stolen from a house a couple of streets over, hoping Mr. Nabu—who sat on his patio, reading the newspaper every morning—was too busy scouring the obits for names of friends and enemies to notice my pasty white ass scramble past.

  After my second abduction, I began hiding a duffel bag with spare clothes behind the AC unit under my bedroom window. The sluggers don’t always return me totally naked, but when they do, I assume it’s because it amuses them to watch me attempt to sneak from one end of Calypso to the other without being arrested for indecent exposure.

  As I dressed, I tried to wrap my brain around the possibility that the world was going to end, and the absurd notion that aliens had chosen me to determine whether the apocalypse would happen as scheduled or be delayed. I simply wasn’t important enough to make such a crucial decision. They should have abducted the president or the pope or Neil deGrasse Tyson.

  I don’t know why I didn’t press the button for real when I had the chance other than that I don’t think the aliens would have given me such a long lead time if they hadn’t wanted me to consider my choice carefully. Most people probably believe they would have pressed the button in my situation—nobody wants the world to end, right?—but the truth is that nothing is as simple as it seems. Turn on the news; read some blogs. The world is a shit hole, and I have to consider whether it might be better to wipe the slate clean and give the civilization that evolves from the ashes of our bones a chance to get it right.

  I used the spare key under the dead begonia by the front door to sneak into my house. The smell of cigarette smoke and fried eggs greeted me, and I sauntered into the kitchen like I’d come from my bedroom, still bleary-eyed and sleepy. Mom glanced up from reading her phone. A cigarette hung from the tips of her fingers, and her curly bleached hair was pulled back into a messy ponytail. “About time. I was calling you, Henry. Didn’t you hear me calling you?” My mom is shaped like an eggplant and often sports bags under her eyes of the same color.

  I leaned against the door, not planning to stay. Alien abductions always make me feel like I need a boiling bleach shower. “Sorry.”

  Nana smiled at me from the stove. She slid a plate of pepper-­flecked fried eggs onto the table and set the mayo beside it. “Eat. You’re too skinny.” Nana is gritty and hard; she wears her wrinkles and liver spots like battle scars from a war she’ll never stop fighting. She’s the gristle stuck between Time’s teeth, and I love her for it.

  Mom took a drag from her cigarette and jabbed it in my direction. “I called you a hundred times.”

  Before I could reply, Charlie stomped into the kitchen and swiped my plate. He ate one egg with his hands as he flopped into a chair, and then set to work on the rest of my breakfast. Sometimes it’s difficult to believe Charlie and I come from the same parents. I’m tall, he’s short; I’m skinny, he used to be muscular, though most of it turned to fat after high school; I can count to five without using my fingers. . . . Charlie has fingers.

  “Henry didn’t hear you because Henry wasn’t home.” Charlie smirked at me as he grabbed a fistful of bacon from the plate in the middle of the table. He grimaced at Mom. “Do you have to smoke while I’m eating?”

  Mom ignored him. “Where were you, Henry?”

  “Here.”

  “Liar,” Charlie said. “Your bed was empty when I got home from Zooey’s last night.”

  “What the hell were you doing in my room?”

  Mom took a drag off her cigarette and stubbed it out in the ashtray. Her mouth was pursed and tight like a bright pink sphincter, and her silence spoke louder than any slammed door. The only sounds in the kitchen belonged to the eggs frying on the stove and Nana whistling the Bunker theme song.

  “I couldn’t sleep so I went for a walk. What’s the big deal?”

  Charlie coughed “bullshit” under his breath; I replied with one finger.

  “You’re not . . . sleepwalking . . . again, are you?”

  “I was walking, Mom, but I was definitely awake.”

  Charlie whipped a toast wedge that struck me below my eye. “Two points!”

  “Did you just try to blind me with toast? What the hell is wrong with you?” I grabbed the toast off the floor to throw it away, but Charlie held out his hand and said, “Don’t waste it, bro.”

  Mom lit another cigarette. “No one would blame me if I smothered you both in your sleep.” I think my mom might have been pretty once, but the years devoured her youth, beauty, and enthusiasm for anything with an alcohol content of less than 12 percent.

  Nana handed me a paper bag stained with grease. “Don’t forget your lunch, Charlie.”

  I peeked inside the bag. Nana had dumped two fried eggs, three strips of bacon, and hash browns at the bottom. Broken yolk oozed over everything like sunny pus. “I’m Henry, Nana.” As soon as she turned her back, I tossed the sack lunch into the garbage can.

  “Do you need a ride to school, Henry?” Mom asked.

  I glanced at the clock on the microwave. If I hurried, I’d have enough time to shower and walk to school. “Tempting. I’ve read that beginning your day by doing something absolutely terrifying is good for you, but I’m going to pass.”

  “Smartass.”

  “Could you drop me off at Zooey’s?” Charlie mopped up the last of my eggs with the projectile floor toast and stuffed it into his fat mouth.

  “Don’t you have class this morning?” I asked, knowing full well Charlie had withdrawn from all his classes but still hadn’t told Mom.

  “I can swing you by the community college on my way to work,” Mom said.

  “Thanks. Great.” Charlie faked a smile with gritted teeth, but I knew he was dreaming up a hundred ways to cause me excruciating pain, most of which likely involved his fists and my face—my brother isn’t terribly creative, but he is consistent.

  For the record: if the sluggers ever abduct Charlie, I’m certain he’ll earn the anal probe.

  “Henry, I need you home right after school today.”

  “Why?” I stopped my excruciatingly slow exit from the kitchen even though I needed to get out of there and take a shower if I didn’t want to be late.

  “I’m working a double at the restaurant, so you’ll have to look after Mother tonight.”

  Charlie jeered at me behind Mom’s back, and I wanted to punch that smug look off his face. “What if I have plans?” I didn’t have plans, but the dismal state of my social life was none of her business.

  Mom sucked on her cigarette; the cherry flared. “Just be home after school, all right? Can you do one fucking thing I ask without arguing?”

  “Watch your mouth, young lady,” Nana said from the stove, “or you can go straight to your room without supper.”

  “Sure,” I said. “Whatever.”

  • • •

  On the day I was born, photons from the star Gliese 832 began their journey toward Earth. I was little more than a squalling, wrinkled, shit-spewing monster when that light began its sixteen-year journey through the empty void of space to
reach the empty void of Calypso, Florida, where I’ve spent my entire, empty void of a life. From Gliese 832’s point of view, I am still a wrinkled, shit-spewing monster, only recently born. The farther we are from one another, the further we live in each other’s pasts.

  Five years in my past, my father used to take me and Charlie deep-sea fishing on the weekends. He’d wake us up hours before sunrise and treat us to breakfast at a greasy diner called Spooners. I’d stuff myself full of grits and cheesy eggs. Sometimes I’d really indulge and order a stack of chocolate-­chip pancakes. After breakfast we’d head to the docks, where Dad’s friend Dwight kept his boat, and we’d aim for carefree waters.

  I always sat at the bow, dangling my feet over the side, letting the water tickle my toes as we sped through the intracoastal toward the deep sea. I loved how the sun and salt spray perfused my skin, filling me with the memory of light. God surely meant for humans to live like that. He hadn’t intended for us to wither into desiccated husks in front of brightly lit screens that leeched away our summer days one meme at a time.

  The fishing trips began well enough. We’d swap dirty jokes that Mom would have killed us for hearing or telling; Dwight would find us a suitable place to drift; Dad would bait my hook, patiently explaining what he was doing as he worked the squid or bait fish onto the barbed end; and we’d cast our lines and wait for the fish to bite. Not even Charlie’s unending nut punches and nipple twists ruined the mood. Those times were as perfect as any I ever had, but the good times never lasted.

  My doctor once explained that it was an inner-ear problem. Something to do with balance and equilibrium affecting my spatial orientation. Honestly, I don’t understand how my ears affected my stomach, but I took his word for it. There I was, laughing and smiling and enjoying the day—fishing pole gripped in my hands, bare feet propped on the railing—­when the nausea would strike. The boat tilted, the deck melted under my feet and sloped toward the water. My skin burned, and my mouth watered. I’d try to breathe normally, but I could never get enough oxygen.

  I was on a sinking ship in the middle of the expanding ocean, terrified, sick, and unable to do a goddamn thing about it. The boat would rock, dipping and swaying with the waves, and I’d fight the queasiness. I’d barter with God. I’d pray for anyone, angel or demon, to keep me from being sick, but no one was listening or they didn’t care. My puke splattered into the water—chunks of my breakfast still ­recognizable—­someone, usually Charlie, would make a joke about chum, and I’d crawl into the cabin and curl up on the padded bench for the remainder of the fishing expedition.

  Eventually, Dad gave up trying to include me and left me behind. One Saturday morning I woke up and discovered his car gone, Charlie’s bed empty. Then Charlie started high school and was too cool to go fishing anymore. He was too cool for everything. He divided his time between watching porn, masturbating, and trying to figure out ways to score liquor to impress his mouth-breather friends. I was convinced that high school transformed boys into porn-addicted, chronic-masturbating alcoholics.

  I was wrong. It turns them into something much worse.

  Most of Calypso is paradise, and is home to some of the wealthiest families in South Florida. Rich teenage boys are also porn-addicted, chronic-masturbating alcoholics, but they have access to better porn and booze. They also have cars and money. I have neither, which means I started CHS with two strikes against me.

  High school is like those fishing trips with my dad: I want to be there, I want to enjoy myself like everyone else, but I always end up huddled on the floor, praying for the end.

  Jesse once told me that if I focused on a fixed point on the horizon, I would be okay, but Jesse hanged himself in his bedroom last year, so the value of his advice is dubious at best.

  • • •

  Ms. Faraci stood at the Smart Board trying to explain covalent bonds, which we were supposed to have reviewed the previous night. Judging by the downcast eyes and bored expressions worn by most of the class, I was the only one who’d actually done it.

  Ms. Faraci doesn’t care about societal conventions. She rarely wears makeup, frequently shows up to class in mismatched shoes, and is obscenely passionate about science. Everything excites her: magnetism, Newtonian dynamics, strange particles. She’s a pretty strange particle herself. And she never lets our apathy discourage her. She’d teach chemistry with jazz hands and finger puppets if she thought that would inspire us. Sometimes her enthusiasm makes me cringe, but she’s still my favorite teacher. There are days when her chemistry class is the only reason I can stomach school at all.

  “Hey, Space Boy.” Marcus McCoy whispered at me from the back of the classroom. He has money and a car. I ignored him. “Yo, Space Boy. You do the chem worksheet?” Muffled laughter trailed the question. I ignored that, too.

  I stared at the illustrations of molecules in my book, admiring the way they fit together. They had a purpose, a destiny to fulfill. I had a button. My mind wandered, and I fantasized about the end of everything. About watching all the Marcus McCoys of the world die horrible, bloody deaths. I’m not going to lie: it made me want to masturbate.

  “Space Boy . . . Space Boy.” Their sadistic giggling irritated me almost as much as the nickname.

  On my left, Audrey Dorn sat at her desk, scrutinizing me. She has an easy Southern smile, calculating eyes, and usually dresses like she’s on her way to a business meeting. She’s the kind of girl who doesn’t believe in “good enough.” We were friends once. When she noticed I’d seen her staring, she shrugged and returned her attention to Faraci.

  “Come on, Space Boy. I only need a couple of answers.”

  I glanced over my shoulder. Marcus McCoy was leaning forward on his elbows so that his biceps bulged in his tight polo for everyone to appreciate. He wore his thick brown hair parted neatly to the left, and he flashed me his entitled grin. No doesn’t mean to Marcus what it means to those without money and a car.

  “Do your own homework, Marcus.”

  Adrian Morse and Jay Oh, two of Marcus’s buddies, snickered, but it was aimed at me, not him.

  “I don’t have little green men to do it for me,” Marcus said, drawing even more attention.

  “What’s so funny?” Ms. Faraci scowled at me and Marcus. She took the sharing of electron pairs seriously.

  “Nothing,” I mumbled.

  Marcus said, “Nothing, Ms. Faraci,” barely able to finish the sentence before cracking up.

  I have Charlie to thank for outing me to the entire school. He was a senior when I was a freshman, and he considered telling everyone I’d been abducted by aliens and turning me into a social pariah his greatest achievement. I don’t know who thought up the nickname Space Boy, but it stuck. Most of the kids in my class don’t even know my real name, but they know Space Boy for sure.

  When the bell finally rang for lunch, Ms. Faraci caught me at the door and pulled me aside. I stared at my shoes when Marcus passed. Adrian whispered, “Space Boy sucks alien dick,” on his way out. To the best of my knowledge, sluggers don’t have dicks, which probably makes it difficult to masturbate. People have a lot of theories about why boys fall behind in school when they become teenagers, but all I’m saying is that I’d probably get a lot more schoolwork done if I didn’t have a dick.

  Ms. Faraci sat on the edge of her desk. “Rough day?”

  “Not the roughest.”

  Her concern made me uncomfortable. It was one thing to be ridiculed by my classmates, another to be pitied by a teacher. “You’re a smart kid, Henry, with a real knack for science. You’re going to show those boys one day.”

  Maybe that’s true, but cliché platitudes rarely help. “Is it possible for the world to end suddenly?”

  Ms. Faraci cocked her head to the side. “Well, sure. There are any number of scenarios that could lead to the extinction of all life on Earth.”

  “Like what?”

  “Asteroid impact, gamma radiation from a nearby supernova, nuclear holocaust.” S
he ticked the list off on her fingers before she stopped and narrowed her eyes. “I know high school is rough, Henry, but blowing up the planet is never the answer.”

  “You’ve clearly forgotten what high school is like from my side of the desk.”

  • • •

  Marcus slammed me against the inside of the bathroom stall. The rickety partitions shook, their bolts rattled, and he invaded my personal space. The edge of the toilet-paper dispenser dug through my jeans and into the backs of my thighs, and he thrust his palm against my chest and leaned all his weight onto me. His cologne filled my nostrils with the scent of freshly mown grass. Marcus McCoy always smelled like summer.

  I thought I heard the door and tried to check it out, but Marcus grabbed my jaw, silencing me. He dug his thumb into my cheek and eliminated the remaining space between our bodies, his kiss impatient and rough. His scruff scraped my lips, he ran his hands up my back and across my cheeks and down the front of my pants so quickly, I could hardly react.

  “Cold hands!” I ducked out of Marcus’s crushing hug to peek over the top of the stall door and make certain we were still alone. I buttoned my pants and adjusted myself.

  Marcus was pissing into the toilet when I turned back around. He grinned at me over his shoulder as if I should be honored to watch him pee. “My parents are in Tokyo this weekend.”

  “Again?”

  “Awesome, right?” He zipped up and pulled me by the back of the neck into another kiss, but it felt like he was trying to excavate my face with his tongue. Anyway, I was paranoid someone was going to catch us, so I disengaged from his lips and stumbled out of the stall. “Where you going, Space Boy?”

  “We agreed you weren’t going to call me that anymore.”

  “It’s cute. You’re cute, Space Boy.” We stood at the sinks and both admired Marcus’s reflection in the mirror—his smooth olive skin and aquiline nose combine with his ­dimples and muscles to make him unbearably handsome. Worse still, he knows it. Then there’s me. Round cheeks, big lips, and an angry zit on the side of my nose that resisted all attempts at eradication. I couldn’t fathom why Marcus wanted to hook up with me, even if it was only in secret.