Antsy Does Time

by Neal Shusterman

  “Me?”

  “It’s your life. That thermometer’s measuring years for you. You’re the one who has to thank people—make them feel good about what they’ve done.”

  Gunnar couldn’t look at me. He looked down, tapped the edge of my locker door with his foot. Then he said, “Dr. G isn’t always wrong.”

  “Well . . . I hope he’s wrong this time, because as screwed up as this whole thing is, I don’t want you to die.”

  The bell rang, but Gunnar didn’t leave yet. He hung around for a good ten seconds, then said, “Thanks, Antsy,” and hurried off to class.

  The rally was at six, on account of it couldn’t interfere with class instruction or sports—but since it was approved by the district superintendent, who was up-and-coming in her political career, it was taken very seriously. I was hoping that since it was in the evening, a lot of kids wouldn’t show—but then the principal offered every student who came extra credit in the class of their choosing. That was almost as good as free food.

  I went home at the end of the school day, figuring I’d be home just long enough to shower, and change, and pray for an asteroid to wipe out all human life before I had to give my speech. When I got out of the shower, Mom accosted me in the hallway.

  “Get dressed, we’re picking up Aunt Mona at the airport.”

  I just stood there with a towel around me and a sinkhole opening beneath my feet.

  “Don’t give me that look,” she said. “Her flight arrives in less than an hour.” I could tell Mom was already at the end of her rope, and the visit hadn’t even started. “Please, Antsy, don’t make this any harder than it needs to be.”

  “But . . . but I got something I gotta do!”

  “It can wait.”

  I laughed nervously, imagining an auditorium full of people waiting, and waiting and waiting. The one thing worse than having to give this speech was not showing up at all.

  “You don’t understand . . . I’m giving a speech tonight for that friend of mine.” And this next part I had to force out, because it wasn’t coming by itself. “The one who’s dying.”

  That gave her a moment’s pause. “You’re giving a speech?”

  “Yeah. The district superintendent is going to be there and everything.”

  “Why is this the first we’re hearing about this?”

  “Well, maybe if you two weren’t at the restaurant all the time, you would have heard.” I didn’t mean that, but I chose to play the guilt card because this was serious, and I had to use every weapon at my disposal.

  “What time does it start?” she asked.

  “Six.”

  “Well, if you’re giving a speech, we’ll all want to be there. We can pick up your aunt and make it back by six.”

  “You can’t be serious! LaGuardia Airport at this time of day? In this weather? We’ll be lucky if we’re back for the Fourth of July!”

  But Mom wasn’t caving. “Don’t worry—your father knows shortcuts. Now go put on that shirt Aunt Mona bought you.”

  At last I lost all power of speech. Of all the days to have to wear that stupid pink-and-orange shirt—was I going to have to give a speech in front of the entire student body looking like a cross between a Barbie car and a traffic cone? My mouth hung open, something sounding like Morse code came out, and Mom said:

  “Just do it,” and she went downstairs to give the living room a final dusting.

  I stewed all the way to LaGuardia.

  “Stop pouting,” Mom said, as if this was a mere childish expression of disappointment.

  Well, you asked for it, I told myself. You asked for an asteroid and here it is. Planetoid Mona, impact at 4:26 P.M., Eastern Standard Time.

  As much as I hated having to give a speech, I didn’t want to be a no-show for Gunnar. All could be lost today if we didn’t make it back. My good standing with the principal, my self-respect—even Kjersten, who did not approve of Gunnar’s rally but would approve even less of me skipping out on him. And would Mona take the fall for this? Would my parents? No! It would all be on my head.

  I cursed myself for not having the guts to say no and stick by it, refusing to go.

  “Why do we all have to be at the airport?” I had said just before we left the house. “If the rest of you are there, why do I have to go?”

  “Because I’m asking you to,” was my father’s response.

  And as unreasonable as that was, I knew I had to go. Maybe Gunnar’s dad has forfeited his right to be respected—but I still had to respect my father’s wishes. Even if they screwed me royally.

  By the time we got to the terminal, Aunt Mona was already waiting, and even before she hugged us, the onslaught began.

  “Ugh! Where were you? I’ve been here for ten minutes!”

  “Couldn’t find parking,” Dad said, kissing her cheek. “Your luggage come yet?”

  “You know LaGuardia. Ugh! I’ll be lucky if it comes at all.” She looked at me and nodded approvingly. “I see you’re wearing that shirt I got you. It’s European, you know. I got it especially for you—the bright colors are supposed to make you look muscular.”

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw Christina grin, and I sniffed loudly to remind her she stunk of Mona’s perfume. I looked at my watch—Mom saw me, and tried to rush everything along. Luckily the luggage came out quickly, and we hurried to the car, with less than an hour to make it to the rally.

  Air travel was not a good thing for my aunt’s mood. Our car ride was a veritable feast of unpleasantness—but rather than going through everything Mona said on the car ride, I’ll offer you a menu of choice selections.

  Moná

  An all-you-can-stomach experience.

  —APPETIZERS—

  “I see you’ve still got the same old car.

  Do they even make this model anymore?”

  “Where are you taking us? You never had a sense of direction, Joe.

  Even as a boy he’d get lost on his bicycle and I’d have to find him.”

  “You should smile more, Angela.

  Maybe then your children might.”

  —WHINE LIST—

  “Ugh! I’m an icicle here—this heater gives no heat!”

  “Toxic mold in your basement? Ugh!

  You should have had the whole house torn down.”

  “Can’t we stop and get something to drink?

  I’m getting nauseous from the fumes. Ugh!”2

  —SOUPS AND STEWS—

  “Traffic? You don’t know traffic until you’ve lived in Chicago.

  Your traffic is nothing compared to mine.”

  “Stress? You don’t know stress until you’ve run a perfume company.

  Your stress is nothing compared to what I go through.”

  “Weather? You don’t know how easy you have it!

  Come to Chicago if you want to know what real weather is.”

  —MAIN COURSE—

  (Served scalding hot, and taken with a grain of salt)

  “You’re taking me to Paris, Capisce? for dinner?

  I thought we were going to a regular restaurant.”

  “It’s on Avenue T? Couldn’t you find a better location?

  Well, I suppose you’ll do better in a neighborhood

  with low expectations.”

  “Once I move to New York, I’ll be able to give you pointers

  on the right way to run a business.”3

  —LIGHTER SELECTIONS—

  for the calorie-conscious

  “Angela, dear—I’ll order Nutri-plan diet meals for you.

  You don’t have to thank me, it’s my treat.”

  “Christina, you’re very attractive, for a girl of your build.”

  “One word, Joe: ‘Liposuction.’”

  —DESSERT—

  “What’s this about stopping at a school?”

  “How long is this going to take?”

  “I haven’t eaten all day!”

  “Can I just wait in the car?”

&nb
sp; “On second thought, no. In this neighborhood I’ll probably get mugged.”

  We walked into the rally five minutes late, to find an auditorium packed, standing room only. My parents were completely bewildered. They knew I’d been doing “something” for Gunnar, but I don’t think they had any idea what it was, or how big it had become. They had never even seen my time contracts.

  “Some turnout,” said Dad.

  “And on a school night,” said Mom.

  “This is how flu epidemics start,” said Mona, zeroing in on one kid with a hacking cough.

  “What’s that up onstage?” my mom asked, pointing at the big cardboard thermometer.

  “It’s measuring all the time I collected for Gunnar.”

  “Oh,” she said, with no idea what I was talking about. It was actually kind of nice to see my parents starstruck by something I had done—even if it was all a sham.

  I had my speech in my pocket, and as nervous as I was to get up in front of all these people, I was relieved to actually be there. This wouldn’t be so bad. It would be over quick, then we could get off to dinner and face a new menu of perspiration-inducing gripes from our own “relative humidity.”

  But it didn’t happen that way. Not by a long shot. That night will be branded in my mind forever, because it was, without exaggeration, the worst night of my life.

  16 The Day That Forever Will Be Known as “Black Wednesday”

  The freezing rain had turned to sleet. It pelted the long windows of the auditorium with a clattering hiss like radio static. There were no seats for us—in fact, there were no seats for about a dozen people standing in the back, and even more were still filing in.

  “This is very impressive,” Mom said.

  “Ugh,” said Mona. “What is this, Ecuador? Do we need all this heat?”

  She was right about that. Even though it was freezing outside, the auditorium was stifling hot. My father had taken off his coat, but there was nowhere to put it. He ended up holding his own and Mona’s, which was made of so many small animals, my father looked like a fur trader. Mom took out a tissue and blotted his forehead since his hands were too full to do it himself.

  “Antsy! Where have you been?” It was Neena Wexler, Fresh-man Class President.

  “Airport.”

  Neena gave a nod of hello to my family. Mona fanned herself in response to point out the heat issue.

  “Sorry it’s so hot,” Neena said, “but it’s actually on purpose. We have a whole thermometer motif.”

  “Just remember to enunciate,” Aunt Mona advised me. “I’m sure you’ll do fine even with that speech impediment.” She was referring to my apparent inability to pronounce her name “Moná.”

  I looked to Dad to make sure he was okay with all of this. Now that he had gotten over his initial bewilderment, he just looked tired and worried.

  “Don’t mind your father,” Mom said. “He’s just concerned because he left Barry in charge of the restaurant tonight.” Barry is his assistant manager, who gets overwhelmed if there’s too many salad orders.

  With the clock ticking, Neena grabbed my wrist and dragged me toward the stage.

  “We’re all proud of you,” Mom called after me.

  Neena had led the entire thermometer campaign, and had done it with the brutal resolve of a wartime general. She did everything short of wrestling the entire time-shaving industry out of my hands in her attempt to make it a student-government operation. I wish I could have just left it in her hands and walked away, but I was as much a poster child for this Event as Gunnar—and make no mistake about it, this was an Event, with a capital E.

  There were several chairs onstage, next to the thermometer. Balloons were strung to everything onstage, enough maybe to lift someone else up to the Empire State Building if you bunched them all up together. Gunnar was in one chair, and seemed to be enjoying this much more than I wanted him to. Principal Sinclair sat in another chair, and the third one was waiting for me. Some seats in the front row of the auditorium were taped off, intended for Gunnar’s family, but Kjersten was the only one there. She smiled at me and I gave her a little wave. I could tell she wanted this over just as much as I did—it was good to know I wasn’t the only one.

  Neena whisked me past the superintendent of schools and her entourage. She shook my hand, and before I could say anything, Neena pulled me up onstage and sat me down in my preassigned seat, under bright lights that made it all the more hot.

  “Interesting shirt,” Gunnar said.

  “‘True color coordination lies within,’ ” I told him. “Tommy Freakin’ Hilfiger.” If Gunnar could do it, then so could I.

  “Hey, Antsy,” someone in the audience shouted. “You gonna baptize anyone today?”

  People laughed. I couldn’t find the heckler in the audience, but I did find my father, who showed no sign of amusement.

  Neena approached the podium, tapped the microphone to make sure it was on, and began. “Welcome to our rally in support of our classmate and friend Gunnar Ümlaut.” Cheers and whoops from the crowd. Gunnar waved; for the first time since I knew him, he seemed blissfully happy. He was milking it for all it was worth.

  “You’re not the homecoming king,” I whispered to him. “Stop waving already.”

  He spoke back to me through a gritted-teeth smile, like a ventriloquist. “It would be suspicious to ignore the cheers.”

  Neena continued. “It’s your heartfelt donations that have made this evening possible.”

  I pulled my speech out of my pocket, ready to give it, but Gunnar handed me a program, printed up special for the rally. “I’d put that speech away for a while if I were you,” he said.

  Neena, who I’m sure will grow up to plan weddings and Super Bowl halftime shows, had a whole evening of Gunnar-themed activities lined up. The program was four pages long, and “Speech by Anthony Bonano” was toward the bottom of page four. I groaned, and Neena said:

  “Let’s all rise for the national anthem, as performed by our jazz choir.”

  The curtain opened behind us to reveal the entire jazz choir wearing TIME WARRIOR T-shirts, like everyone else onstage except me and Gunnar. They delivered a painfully drawn-out rendition of “The Star-Spangled Banner,” then someone in the audience yelled, “Play ball!” and the choir disappeared behind the closing curtain.

  Next came an address from the principal. He talked up the school, the faculty, he kissed up to the superintendent, and then he went right into infomercial mode. “Let me just tell you about some of the many student organizations, clubs, and activities we have on our exceptional campus . . .”

  Way in the back I could see Aunt Mona’s lips moving and my dad nodding, taking in whatever she was spouting. I took a deep shuddering breath, and fiddled with my speech until it was all crumpled.

  “I’m sorry you have to go through this,” Gunnar said, “but look at how happy everyone is. They all feel like they’ve done a good deed just by being here.”

  “It doesn’t get you off the hook,” I reminded him.

  Principal Sinclair sat down, and Neena took the podium again. “And now we’re happy to present a short film made by our very own Ira Goldfarb.”

  “Ira?” I said aloud. I found him in the second row. He gave me a thumbs-up. I had no idea he was involved with this at all.

  The auditorium darkened, and on the TVs in the corner we viewed a ten-minute documentary featuring interviews with students and teachers, candid moments of Gunnar that he didn’t even know about, and a painfully detailed, animated description of Pulmonary Monoxic Systemia that would make most of my speech seem redundant. The whole thing was done to songs like “Wind Beneath my Wings” and “We Are the Champions.” The fact that Ira had half the audience in tears after the last slow-motion sequence made me more impressed, and more annoyed, by his filmmaking skills than ever before. Gunnar was still grinning like an idiot, but I could tell he was getting embarrassed. This was too much attention, even for him.

  When it w
as over, the lights came up, and Neena rose to the podium once more. “Wasn’t that wonderful?” she asked, not expecting a response, although some bozo yelled that he wet his pants. “But before we go on,” said Neena, “let’s have a look at the thermometer.” She pulled the microphone from its holder and crossed to the thermometer, which stood taller than she did. “As you can see our goal is fifty years. Right now, we only have forty-seven years and five months, but tonight we’re going to reach our goal!”

  The audience applauded with questionable enthusiasm.

  “Who out there would like to help us reach our goal for Gunnar?”

  She waited. And she waited. And she waited some more.

  Gunnar and I looked at each other, starting to get uncomfortable. Neena, perfectionist that she is, was not willing to leave it at forty-seven years, five months. The thermometer had to be complete. There was a red Sharpie standing by for that very purpose, and no one—no one—was going anywhere until Gunnar had a full fifty years.

  “Isn’t there anyone out there willing to give the tiniest amount of goodwill to Gunnar?” urged Neena.

  Principal Sinclair took to the microphone. “Come on, people! I know for a fact that our students here are more generous than this!” And that clinched it—because now filling up the thermometer was far less entertaining than making us all sit up there looking foolish.

  Finally Wailing Woody rose from his seat and came down the aisle, high-fiving everyone as he passed. As he came up to the stage he raised his hands as if to quiet nonexistent applause. He gave a month, and was quickly followed by the superintendent and her entourage. The applause was getting weaker and less enthusiastic with each signature.

  “Okay,” said Neena. “That makes forty-eight years, even. Who’s next?”

  I leaned over to her. “Neena,” I whispered, “this isn’t a telethon, we don’t have to reach the goal.”