Then the News Ants raced off to join the battle, and Antonio was left alone again to watch.
Ant tore at ant, jaw clashed with jaw. The crunch of breaking armor echoed across the air. The ant that Antonio had run into that morning was running in circles, the legs from one side of his body torn off, carried away by three small Red Ants who held the unfortunate’s limbs out in front of themselves like clubs, smacking and swinging the terrible weapons to clear their path.
It was the most horrible sight Antonio had ever seen.
And then he remembered his friend, Antioch, somewhere in the fray.
Antonio hesitated, but then ran into the battle, weaving around the bodies of the fallen.
“Antioch!” he cried out. “Antioch!”
A Red Ant charged at him, but Antonio dodged the first snap of the smaller ant’s jaws, and then kicked him in the side so that he rolled onto his back. He moved to bite the weak place between links in the Red Ant’s shell, but the ant cried out, a word in his own language that Antonio didn’t recognize. He could smell the Red Ant’s terror and see the quiver of his antennae. He had no quarrel with this ant. Why should he kill him?
Antonio raced on, leaving the Red Ant alive.
“Antonio?”
He heard a faint voice, the voice of his friend, Antioch. Antonio ran to Antioch where he lay. One leg was missing, one antenna was bent, and his shell was cracked clean across his forehead. His voice was faint.
“I’m here!” Antonio wrapped his friend in his front legs, hugging him.
“I thought you . . .” Antioch struggled to speak. “I thought you wouldn’t come. You said we were fools to trust the giant.”
“You were,” said Antonio. “I’m not out here to scold you. I’m out here to help you. My friend.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t listen,” Antioch said.
“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” said Antonio. “You did what you did for good reasons, just like I did. One of us doesn’t have to be wrong for the other to be right.”
“But the colony . . . ,” Antioch said.
Antonio looked around the battlefield. Black Ants were falling to the right and left, and more Red Ants were charging from their side of the blacktop, outnumbering the Black Ants by as many as a hundred to one. He saw the Queen and her Royal Travel Throne Carriers swarmed so heavily by Red Ants that there was no hope of saving any of them.
Then he heard a bell, a bell from the building of the giants.
And the doors opened.
“The colony is lost,” Antonio said. “And if we don’t go, we’ll be lost, too, crushed beneath the giants’ shoes.”
“I can’t walk,” said Antioch. “Leave me.”
“No,” said Antonio. “I can carry you.”
He hoisted Antioch onto his back with ease. His friend groaned with the pain of being lifted, but he allowed himself to be carried. Antonio ran with his friend, away from the battle, away from the Red Ants, who had ceased attacking when the giants began to reach the blacktop.
Soon, a new set of cries rang out as ants, both Red and Black, found themselves trampled under the feet of giants. The Red Ant Antonio had spared was not spared by a giant’s careless shoe. Such was the way of war. Good or ill, friend or enemy, heroic or brave: All could be smashed beneath a giant’s foot in an instant.
Antonio looked away from the horrible scene. He did not wish to see such destruction ever again. He ran with Antioch to the canyon they had called home, but then kept running, into the grass beyond the dirt, where he would dig new tunnels and nurse his friend back to health. Maybe, one day, if they stuck together, they would find a new colony, a place where an ant could be himself, unique. If they couldn’t find such a colony, perhaps they would start one themselves, for it wasn’t a Queen who made a colony, but two Drones deciding to trust each other, no matter what, even if they didn’t always agree. Even if they were different.
When they reached the grass, Antioch noticed something strange from his spot on Antonio’s back. “I think,” he said, “one of the giants just waved to us.”
“That’s just the pain talking,” Antonio told him.
“I don’t know,” said Antioch. “This giant made me think of you. He looked . . . different.”
“No,” snapped Antonio, unable to contain his anger. “The giants are all the same.”
Antioch’s silence spoke his disagreement loudly.
“Do you trust me?” Antonio asked Antioch, looking for reassurance.
“I trust you,” said Antioch.
Antonio smiled, and with that, they entered an unfamiliar tunnel and left the world they knew, the colony they’d lost, and the land of caterpillars and giants far behind.
Vince Evans
WHAT REALLY HAPPENED
THE TEST
Not many kids can pee in school and become more menacing. I’m not talking about a nervous kid who gets asked a tough question by the teacher and wets himself. This wasn’t just some toddler in kindergarten, either . . .
It was fifth grade, and Tony was one of the largest kids in the class. He had been arguing with the teacher off and on for a few hours, like some knuckleheads do when they’re bored and just want to leave class. After the last outburst, Tony asked if he could go to the bathroom. The request was denied. Tony pushed back in his chair. Remaining seated, he unzipped and began urinating, directing the stream at anyone who looked his way. All kids like to see the teacher’s authority challenged. But this was different. This was a glimpse of a world without rules. This was anarchy.
The teacher remained unaware until there was a good-size pool of urine on the floor, and then he angrily ordered Tony to the principal’s office. Tony left, reminding the teacher with a smile, “I said I had to go to the bathroom.” There were no funny nicknames afterward, no “Tony Tinkles” or “Puddles,” just total terror.
I’m sorry if that grossed you out, but it’s important to tell the truth here. That’s what I was up against: Tony the Terror.
Tony and I had had a few run-ins in the past, including the time he was recruited to beat me up by the only two kids in our grade who were smaller than me. My older brother bailed me out of that jam by acting as my bodyguard, but he’d since graduated to another school. This time I was on my own. The situation was simple enough the way Tony explained it to me that morning. Tony and I had the same afternoon math class, and I had a reputation for being an egghead.
“I’m going to copy off your test today,” Tony said. “Just make sure you hold it up so I can see it.”
That was it, short and to the point. Then Tony walked away. I don’t remember if there was a verbal threat, but I do know it was implied. I was doomed. I mean, if I didn’t know it before, I sure knew it after witnessing the Urination Incident: Tony didn’t bluff. His threats were promises. And like all good threats, this one was delivered early, with the moment of reckoning not for hours, giving me plenty of time to agonize. I was terrified of the beating, but there was an even worse concern: If I allowed this, if he copied from me today, where would it stop? Would Tony copy all my tests from now on? Would I have to start doing his homework, too? On top of that misery, I’d be a marked man, a target for any of the other academically challenged bullies. I had to think of a way out.
Like most kids in a bad situation, I did nothing all day. No plans, no recruiting of friends or talking to teachers. I just fantasized about events that would save me: a fire, the teacher suddenly getting sick, a dinosaur crushing the school.
All that daydreaming took me right up to math class, where X+Y was about to equal a fist in my face. I slumped into my seat. Tony had positioned himself in the desk directly behind me (not a good location if he started urinating again). The tests were passed around and I slowly started answering the questions, still sort of lost in a daydream-like nightmare . . . was the dinosaur ever going to crush the
school? Maybe Tony forgot? A quick kick to the back of my chair informed me that he hadn’t. There was a second kick and a whisper that I couldn’t really hear, but I’m sure it wasn’t “Good luck.” I curled my test upward and leaned to the side to give Tony a clear view. This was bad. I was doing exactly what I didn’t want to do.
Then an idea crept into my brain. Maybe I could stall, pretend like the questions were too tough. Tony would give up on me for fear of not finishing his own test. I launched into what I’m sure was some terrible acting: I scratched my head, counted on my fingers, put in answers only to slap the table and erase them. Tony reviewed my performance with three swift kicks to my chair. Those kicks finally knocked my brain into high gear. It was simple, really. And I was desperate enough to try anything. I would take a dive, throw the test, and flunk it. I had good grades; my average could handle one bad test. If I proved I was a math moron, then I’d be free!
Now I answered the questions quickly and held the paper up high. Take a look at this, sucker, I thought. Fear of Tony kept me cautious, though. Some of these questions were easy. He’d know the answers were wrong. So I mixed some right ones in with the wrong.
It wasn’t a long test, and the teacher rapidly graded them and returned them as the bell rang. I don’t remember my grade. I know it wasn’t a complete F—I did answer some questions right. But it wasn’t passing. I did one last bit of encore acting: I gasped and clutched my chest upon seeing my score. I never looked back. I didn’t try to slip away, either. I just trudged slowly toward the door, mixed in with the mass of kids.
Suddenly Tony was in front of me, blocking my way. Glaring, he held the crumpled test in his clenched fist inches from my nose. I stood there motionless. He leaned forward and, with utter disgust, grumbled, “I thought you were smart.”
That was it. He turned and walked away. It was as if I’d betrayed some great friendship. I’d let him down. For him there was an order to things: He threatens me and I give him what he wants. I’d twisted that. In some small way I may have shown him a terrifying world without rules. Now he was the one on the other side of anarchy.
I managed to steer clear of Tony after that, but it didn’t take much effort. He never sought me out. Sometimes he was even friendly to me. I assumed it was because I’d proven I was no egghead. I was just another kid failing school.
Nate Evans
WHAT REALLY HAPPENED
THE BIG BULLY BACKFIRE
Let me say this right up front: I’m a nice guy. I’ve volunteered at an animal shelter (picking up poop, no less). I give to a charity that assists kids who live in poverty. I even help old ladies cross the street. But even nice guys can be jerks once in a while, and back in sixth grade, I was—I hate to admit this—a jerk.
It started one day during recess. My elementary school used to pass out balls for us to play with, and my friends and I wanted to shoot some hoops. A little kid, probably a third- grader, wanted the same basketball that I did. I wrestled him for it, yanked it away, and then called him a punk. Something like that. My friends and I messed around on the basketball court until the bell rang, and I didn’t think much about it again . . . except for a marble-size ball of guilt that was rolling around in my stomach somewhere.
That afternoon I walked home from school, and there was the kid from recess waiting for me . . . with his big brother. Oh, crud! I thought. I didn’t know this kid lived in my apartment complex. And I sure didn’t know that he had a big brother.
“That’s him,” said the kid, pointing at me. The big brother growled, pulled a pair of pliers from his pocket, and stomped toward me like the Terminator. I wasn’t sure what he was planning to do with those pliers, but I didn’t stick around to find out. I scrambled for home like a yipping dog.
Now, it just so happened that my stepbrother was also home. I thought about telling Bob, my seventeen-year-old stepbrother who drove a cool motorcycle, what happened, and getting him to go teach that bully with the pliers a thing or two . . . but I didn’t. That marble-size ball of guilt rolling around in my gut was now the size of a grapefruit, and I knew that I was responsible for what had happened. I’d acted like a jerk to a little kid, and he was getting revenge. I couldn’t help feeling like I deserved it. My crummy action during recess caused a reaction, just like a physics experiment. I had no one to blame but myself. Feeling miserable, I climbed into bed at 4:15 with nothing but my sour guilt for an afternoon snack.
The next day after school, the brothers were waiting for me again. The goon I knew as “Pliers” snarled like a pit bull and then started spitting names at me—unimaginative stuff like “Four Eyes” (because I wore glasses), but it still stung. I skulked away, fear and guilt boiling in my stomach.
This kept happening for the next few days. Sometimes the bully brothers were waiting for me and sometimes they weren’t, but I lived in an enveloping, acidic fog of anxiety. I still wasn’t talking to anyone about what was happening.
Then one afternoon, my friend Gary walked home with me. I wanted to show him some new superhero comic books I’d bought recently. We were talking about Batman and the X-Men and dynamic comic artists like Jack Kirby, and I was so caught up in our discussion that I forgot about the whole bully situation. Gary was tall and tough, and he was also awesomely talented—he starred as the Artful Dodger in our class production of Oliver. (When Gary grew up, he got even taller and tougher and joined the military. I’m proud to still call him my friend.) I can’t quite remember how it played out exactly, but Gary stopped to tie his shoe or something and it must have appeared as if I was walking home from school by myself, as usual. That was when the evil goon, Pliers, jumped out from behind the nearest building shouting, “Where ya goin’, Four Eyes?!”
Like one of the superheroes we’d just been talking about, Gary stepped up beside me, bristling with anger and tons of attitude, and roared, “Don’t call my friend ‘Four Eyes’!”
I’ll never forget what happened next: Pliers went white as notebook paper. His mouth hung open; his eyes bulged in fear. Pliers suddenly looked like a puny villain who’d been stunned by the mighty fist of Superman. He’d gotten a huge helping of “Truth, Justice, and the American Way” courtesy of Gary, the sixth-grade Superman, and you could tell Pliers was choking on it.
With a strangled yelp, Pliers ducked back behind the building and he was gone. Just like that. Like a magic trick.
“Who was that dude?” Gary asked.
“No one,” I replied. And it was true. I never saw Pliers again. I was genuinely surprised to discover that he was a cowardly cream puff. Sure, he could be brave when facing off against a skinny kid like me. But when confronted with a real challenge, like Gary the Super Sixth-Grader, Pliers collapsed like a skyscraper sculpted from snot. But I couldn’t gloat. Hadn’t I done the same kind of stupid bully moves when I’d grabbed the basketball from that poor third-grade kid?
I realized that I’d earned some awful consequences with my actions that day. But Pliers had, too. He’d made picking on me a hobby. That was his choice. We’d both been jerks. We’d both made stupid choices. And justice was served when we were both knocked down by the big bully backfire.
Varian Johnson
WHAT REALLY HAPPENED
OUT OF MY TWIN'S SHADOW
There are a lot of great things about growing up as an identical twin. If you ever run out of clean clothes, a fresh shirt and pair of jeans are only a closet away. You always have someone available whenever you want to play Combat on your state-of-the-art Atari 2600 video game console. And you always have someone to talk to, about anything and everything.
Then there’s the bad—like when you and your twin are so close, you don’t quite know how to function when he’s not around.
That’s exactly what happened to me when I started seventh grade at Williams Middle School. For the first time, my brother and I were in different classes, something that I didn’t even conside
r as a possibility until I received my schedule. One of those classes was during the school’s lunch period, and it turned out that my brother ended up in first lunch and I had second. And of course, the few friends we had from elementary school were scheduled for first lunch, as well.
I remember agonizing over how lunch was supposed to work. Not just the part where I had to find new people to sit with—I didn’t even know when I was supposed to go to the cafeteria. Was I supposed to line up with my fourth period class, and we’d head to the cafeteria together like in elementary school? Was I supposed to go to my fifth period class first, drop off my books, then go to lunch? I was a good kid; I prided myself on knowing, understanding, and following the rules. The last thing I wanted was to get in trouble, especially on my first day of school. I finally summoned the courage to ask my homeroom teacher about lunch . . . and she responded by basically calling me an idiot.
I struggled during my entire seventh-grade year. I never felt comfortable talking to other students, and I got swindled for money and food more times than I’d like to admit. When my brother and I ended up with the same schedule in eighth grade, I fell back into the familiar routine of deferring to him for almost everything.
Things ultimately changed for me in ninth grade. My high school’s incoming freshman class was huge, and most students had requested to take gym class instead of Air Force Junior Reserve Officer Training Corps (JROTC). After asking parents and students to reconsider, the school eventually resorted to randomly selecting students to take JROTC. Of course, I was picked.
It turned out that JROTC was exactly what I needed. I excelled at the history lessons inside the classroom and the drill instructions in the parking lot behind the school. I loved wearing a uniform—it was the one day of the week when there was no mistaking me for my brother.
Been There, Done That Page 10
