Áèáëèîòåêà / Ïðèêëþ÷åíèÿ / Øóñòåðìàí Íèë : " Antsy Does Time " - ÷èòàòü îíëàéí

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Antsy Does Time Íèë Øóñòåðìàí

        Antsy Bonano #2 It was a dumb idea, but one of those dumb ideas that accidentally turns out to be brilliant×which, IÒve come to realize, is much worse than being dumb. My nameÒs Antsy Bonano×but you probably already know that×and unless you got, like, memory issues, youÒll remember the kid
        named the Schwa, who I told you about last time. Well, now thereÒs this other kid, and his story is a whole lot stranger, if such a thing is possible. It all started when Gunnar Umlaut and I were watching three airborne bozos struggle with a runaway parade balloon. ThatÒs when Gunnar tells me heÒs only got six months to live. Maybe it was because he said he was living on borrowed time, or maybe it was just because I wanted to do something meaningful for him, but I gave him a month of my life ...
        ... And thatÒs when things began to get seriously weird.
        If you want to know more, like how ice water made me famous, or how I dated a Swedish goddess, youÒre going to have to open the book, because IÒm not wasting anymore of my breath on a stinkinÒ blurb.


        ANTSY DOES TIME
        by
        Neal Shusterman

        For Stephanie, my editorial muse



        ÓWhen the parched land yields neither fruit nor flower, grain nor greens, a man will ask himself if the blame lies in the sheer weight of his transgressions, or is it just global warmingØÔ

    ×JOHN STEINBECK



1. The Real Reason People Sit Like Idiots Watching Parades



        It was all my idea. The stupid ones usually are. Once in a while the genius ideas are mine, too. Not on purpose, though. You know what they say: if you put, like, fourteen thousand monkeys in front of computer keyboards for a hundred years, aside from a whole lot of dead monkeys, youÒd end up with one masterpiece among the garbage. Then theyÒd start teaching it in schools to make you feel miserable, because if a monkey can write something brilliant, why canÒt you put five measly sentences together for a writing promptØ
        This idea×I donÒt know whether it was a brilliant-monkey idea, or a stupid-Antsy idea, but it sure had power to change a whole lot of lives.
        I called the idea Ótime shaving,Ô which probably isnÒt what you think it is, so before you start whipping up time machines in your head, you need to listen to what itÒs all about. NobodyÒs going back in time to nuke Napoleon, or give Jesus a cell phone or anything. ThereÒs no time travel at all. People are going to die, though×and in strange and mysterious ways, too, if youÒre into that kind of thing.
        Me, I was just trying to help a friend. I never meant for it to blow up like a giant MacyÒs Thanksgiving Day Parade balloon that gets taken away by the wind.
        Which, by the way, is exactly how the whole thing began.
        On Thanksgiving morning, my friends Howie and Ira and I were hanging out in my recreational attic. We used to have a recreational basement×you know, full of all our old cruddy furniture, a TV, and a big untouchable space in the corner that was going to be for a pool table when we could afford it in some distant Star Trek-like future. Then the basement gets this toxic mold, and we have to seal it off from the rest of the house, on account of the mold might escape and cause cancer, or brain damage, or take over the world. Even after the mold was cleaned out, my parents treated the basement like a radiation zone, uninhabitable for three generations.
        So now we have a recreational attic, full of new old furniture, and space maybe for a Monopoly board instead of a pool table.
        Anyway, Howie, Ira, and I were watching football that Thanksgiving morning, switching to the parade during commercials to make fun of the marching bands.
        ÓOoh! Ooh! Look at this one!Ô said Ira, with an expression that was a weird mix of joy and horror at the same time.
        To the bandÒs credit, they were playing an impressive rendition of Ó(I CanÒt Get No) Satisfaction,Ô but anything cool about it was ruined by their pink-and-orange uniforms. Howie shakes his head. ÓAs long as they dress like that, theyÒre never getting any satisfaction.Ô
        ÓAntsy, donÒt you have a shirt like thatØÔ asks Ira. My nameÒs actually Anthony, but people have called me Antsy for so long, I oughta get it legally changed. I like it because there are so many Anthonys in the neighborhood, if some mother calls the name out a window, the stampede stops traffic. IÒm the only Antsy, though×except for this one time a kid tried to steal it and call himself Antsy, so I had to start writing my name ÓAntsy®,Ô and I threatened to punch him out for identity theft.
        So anyway, about the shirt, although I hate to admit it, yeah, I do have a shirt in orange and pink, although it was a different shade of pink.
        ÓJust because I have it doesnÒt mean I wear it,Ô I tell Ira. The shirt was a birthday gift from my aunt Mona, who has no kids or common sense. IÒll give you one guess how many times IÒve worn it since my fourteenth birthday.
        ÓYou think anyoneÒs documented seizures from looking at that color combinationØÔ asks Howie. ÓWe should run some tests.Ô
        ÓGreat. IÒll get my shirt, you can stare at it for six hours, and weÒll see if you go into convulsions.Ô
        Howie seriously considers this. ÓCan I break for mealsØÔ
        Let me try to explain Howie to you. You know that annoying automated customer-service voice on the phone that wastes your time before making you hold for a real personØ Well, HowieÒs the music on hold. ItÒs not that HowieÒs dumb×heÒs got a fertile mind when it comes to analytical stuff like math×but his imagination is a cold winter in Antarctica where the penguins never learned to swim.
        On TV, the band had almost passed, and one of the giant parade balloons could be seen in the distance. This one was the classic cartoon Roadkyll Raccoon, complete with that infamous tire track down his back, the size of a monster-truck tread. We were about to turn the TV back to football, but then Ira noticed something.
        ÓIs it my imagination, or is Roadkyll on the warpathØÔ
        Sure enough, Roadkyll is kicking and bucking like heÒs Godzilla trying to take out Tokyo. Then this huge gust of wind rips off the band membersÒ hats, and when the gust reaches Roadkyll, he kind of peels himself off the street, and heads to the skies. Most of the balloon handlers have the good sense to let go, except for three morons who decide to go up with the ship.
        Suddenly this is more interesting than the game.
        Howie sighs. ÓIÒve said it before, IÒll say it again. Helium kills.Ô
        The cameras were no longer watching the parade×theyÒre all aimed at the airborne raccoon as it rises in an updraft along the side of the Empire State Building, with the three balloon wranglers clinging like circus acrobats. Then, just as it looks like Roadkyll might be headed for the moon, he gets snagged on top of the Empire State Building and punctures. In less than a minute the balloon has totally deflated over the spire, covering the top of the Empire State Building in rubber coonskin and stranding the three danglers, who hang from their ropes for their lives.
        I was the first one out of my seat.
        ÓLetÒs go,Ô I said, because there are some events in life that are better experienced in person than viewed on TV.
        We took the subway into Manhattan×usually a crowded ride from our little corner of Brooklyn, but since it was Thanksgiving, the trains were mostly empty, except for others like ourselves who were on their way to the Empire State Building to watch history in the making.
        Ira, who has an intense and questionable relationship with his video camera, was lovingly cleaning the lens as he prepared to record todayÒs event for future generations. Howie was reading Of Mice and Men, which we all had to read for English. ItÒs a book the teachers use to trick us×because itÒs really thin, but itÒs like, deep, so you gotta read it twice.
        Across from us in the train was Gunnar Umlaut×a kid who moved here from Sweden when we were all in elementary school. GunnarÒs got long blond hair he makes no excuse for, and a resigned look of Scandinavian despair that melts girls in his path. And if that doesnÒt work, the slight accent he puts on when heÒs around girls does the job. Never mind that heÒs been living in Brooklyn since he was six. Not that IÒm jealous or anything×I admire a guy who uses what heÒs got.
        ÓHi, Gunnar,Ô I said. ÓWhere you headedØÔ
        ÓWhere elseØ The Roadkyll debacle.Ô
        ÓExcellent,Ô I said, and filed the word ÓdebacleÔ in the special place I reserve for words I will never know the meaning of.
        So GunnarÒs sitting there, all slouched and casual, his arms across seats on either side like maybe thereÒs a couple of invisible girls there. (DonÒt get me started on invisible. Long story.) Then he takes one look at HowieÒs book and says, ÓThe dumb guy dies at the end.Ô
        Howie looks up at Gunnar, heaves a heavy sigh that can only come from a lifetime of ruined endings, and closes the book. I snicker, which just irritates Howie even more.
        ÓThanks, Gunnar.Ô Howie sneers. ÓAny more spoilers you care to share with usØÔ
        ÒYeah,Ô says Gunnar. ÓRosebudÒs a sled, the spider dies after the fair, and the Planet of the Apes is actually Earth in the distant future.Ô He doesnÒt smile when he says it. Gunnar never smiles. I think girls must like that, too.
        By the time we got off at Thirty-fourth Street, the parade crowd had all gravitated to the Empire State Building, hoping to experience the thrill of watching someone they donÒt know plunge to his death.
        ÓIf they donÒt survive,Ô said Gunnar, ÓitÒs our responsibility to witness it. As Winston Churchill once said, ØAn untimely end witnessed, gives life deeper meaning.ÒÔ
        Gunnar always talks like that×all serious, as if even stupidity has a point.
        All around us the police are screaming at the crowds, one hand on their batons, saying things like, ÓDonÒt make me use this!Ô
        Up above, the Empire State Building was still wearing a coonskin hat, and the three unfortunate balloon handlers were exactly where they were when we left home×still clinging on to their ropes. Ira handed me the camera, which had a 500X zoom, just in case I wanted to examine one of the guyÒs nose hairs.
        It was hard to hold the camera steady when it was zoomed in, but once I did, I could see firefighters and police inside the Empire State Building, trying to reach the men through the windows. They werenÒt having much luck. Word in the crowd was that a rescue helicopter was on its way.
        One guy had managed to tie the rope around his waist and was swinging toward the windows, but the rescuers couldnÒt get a grip on him. The second guy clung to the rope and also had it hooked around his feet, probably thanking the New York public school system for forcing him to learn how to do this in gym class. The third guy was the worst off. He was dangling from a stick at the end of his rope, holding on with both hands like a flying trapeze once it stops flying.
        ÓHey, I wanna look, too!Ô
        Howie grabs the camera from me, and thatÒs just fine, because I was starting to get a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach. Suddenly I started to wonder what had possessed me to come down here at all.
        ÓHow much you wanna bet those guys write a book about thisØÔ says Howie. It seems Howie assumes theyÒre all going to survive.
        All the while, Gunnar just stood there quietly, his eyes cast heavenward toward the human drama, with a solemn expression on his face. He caught me watching him.
        ÓFor the past few months IÒve been coming to disasters,Ô Gunnar tells me.
        ÓWhyØÔ
        Gunnar shrugs as if itÒs nothing, but I can tell thereÒs more to it. ÓI find them ... compelling.Ô
        Coming from anyone else, this would be like a serial-killer warning sign, but from Gunnar it didnÒt seem weird at all, it just seemed like some profound Scandinavian thing×like all those foreign movies where everyone dies, including the director, the cameraman, and half the audience.
        Gunnar shakes his head sadly as he watches the souls up above. ÓSo fragile ...Ô he says.
        ÓWhat,Ô says Howie, ÓballoonsØÔ
        ÓNo, human life, you idiot,Ô I tell him. For an instant I caught a hint of what actually might have been a smile on GunnarÒs face. Maybe because I said what he was thinking.
        ThereÒs applause all around us, and when I look up, I can see the swinging man has finally been caught by a cop, and heÒs hauled through the window. The helicopter has arrived with a guy tethered to a rope like an action hero, to go after the trapeze dangler. The crowd watches in a silence you rarely hear in a city. It takes a few hair-raising minutes, but the guy is rescued and hauled away by the helicopter. Now only one dangler remains. This is the guy who seemed calmest of all; the guy who had it all under control. The guy who suddenly slips, and plunges.
        A singular gasp from the audience.
        ÓNo way!Ô says Ira, his eye glued to his camera.
        The guy falls. He falls forever. He doesnÒt even spin his arms×itÒs like heÒs already accepted his fate. And suddenly I find I canÒt watch it. I snap my eyes away, looking anywhere else. My shoes, other peopleÒs shoes, the manhole cover beneath me.
        I never heard him hit. IÒm thankful that I didnÒt. Yeah, it was my idea to come here, but when it comes right down to it, I know there are some things you just shouldnÒt watch. ThatÒs when I saw Gunnar×for all his talk about witnessing disaster, he was looking away, too. Not just looking away, but grimacing and covering his eyes.
        The gasps from the crowd have turned to groans of self-loathing as people suddenly realize this wasnÒt about entertainment. Even Howie and Ira are looking kind of ill.
        ÓLetÒs get out of here before the subway gets packed,Ô I tell them, trying to sound less choked up than I really am×but if IÒm a little queasy, itÒs nothing compared to Gunnar. He was so pale I thought he might pass out. He even stumbles a little bit. I grab his arm to keep him steady. ÓHey... Hey, you okayØÔ
        ÓYeah,Ô he says. ÓIÒm fine. ItÒs nothing. Just a part of the illness.Ô
        I looked at him, not quite sure I heard him right. ÓIllnessØÔ
        ÒYes. Pulmonary Monoxic Systemia.Ô And then he says, ÓI only have six months to live.Ô

2. Heaven, Hockey, and the Ice Water of Despair



        The idea of dying never appealed to me much. Even when I was a kid, watching the Adventures of Roadkyll Raccoon and Darren Headlightz, I always found it suspicious the way Roadkyll got flattened at the end of each cartoon and yet was back for more in the next episode. It didnÒt mesh with any reality I knew. According to the way I was raised, there are really just a few possibilities of what happens to you in the hereafter.
        Option one: It turns out youÒre less of a miserable person than you thought you were, and you go to heaven.
        Option two: YouÒre not quite the wonderful person you thought you were, and you go to the other place that people these days spell with double hockey sticks, which, by the way, doesnÒt make much sense, because thatÒs the only sport they canÒt play down there unless theyÒre skating on boiling water instead of ice, but it ainÒt gonna happen, because all the walk-on-water typesÒll be up in heaven.
        I did a report on heaven for Sunday school once, so I know all about it. In heaven, youÒre with your dead relatives, itÒs always sunny, and everyoneÒs got nice views×no oneÒs looking at a disgusting landfill or anything. I gotta tell you, though, if I gotta spend eternity with all my relatives, everybody hugging and walking with God and stuff, IÒll go crazy. It sounds like my cousin GinaÒs wedding before people got drunk. I hope God donÒt mind me saying so, but it all sounds very hockey-stickish to me.
        As for the place down under, the girl who did her report on it got all her information from horror movies, so, aside from really good special effects, her version is highly suspect. Supposedly there are like nine levels, and each one is worse than the last. Imagine a barbecue where youÒre sizzling on the grill×but itÒs not accidental like my dad last summer. And the thing about it is, you cook like one of them Costco roasts thatÒs somehow thicker than an entire cow, so no matter how long you sit there, youÒre still rare in the middle for all eternity.
        My mother, who IÒm sure gives advice to God since she gives it to everyone else, says the fire talk is just to scare people. In reality, itÒs cold and lonely. Eternal boredom×which sounds right, because thatÒs worse than the roasting version. At least when youÒre burning, youÒve got something to occupy your mind.
        There is a third option, called Purgatory, which is a kinder, gentler version of the place down under. Purgatory is GodÒs version of a time-out×temporary flames of woe. I find this idea most appealing, although to be honest, it all bugs me a little. I mean, God loves us and is supposed to be the perfect parent, rightØ So what if a parent came up to their kid and said, ÓI love you, but IÒm going to have to punish you by roasting you over flames of woe, and itÒs really going to hurt.ÒÒ Social Services would not look kindly upon this, and we could all end up in foster care.
        I figure Hell and Purgatory are like those parental threats×you know, like, ÓTease your sister one more time, and I swear IÒll kill you,Ô or ÓCommit one more mortal sin, and so help me, I will roast you over eternal flames, young man.Ô
        Call me weird, but I find that comforting. It means that God really does love us, HeÒs just ticked off.
        Still, none of that was comforting when it came to Gunnar Umlaut. The thought of someone I know dying, who wasnÒt old and dying already, really bothered me. It made me wish I knew Gunnar better, but then if I did, IÒd be really sad now, so why would I want that, and should I feel guilty for not wanting itØ The whole thing reeked of me having to feel guilty for something, and I hate that feeling.


***
        Nobody talked much on the return trip from the Roadkyll Raccoon incident. Between what we witnessed and what Gunnar had told me, there just wasnÒt much anyone wanted to say. We talked about the football games we were missing, and school stuff, but mostly we looked at subway advertisements and out the windows so we wouldnÒt have to look at one another. I wondered if Howie and Ira had heard what Gunnar had told me, but didnÒt want to ask.
        ÓSee ya,Ô was all anyone said when we got off the train. Howie, Ira, and Gunnar all went off to their Thanksgiving meals, and I went home to find a note from my parents, with exclamation points and underlines, telling me to be at the restaurant ON TIME!!!
        My dad runs a French/Italian fusion restaurant called Paris, CapisceØ He didnÒt always do this. He used to have an office job with a plastics company, but he lost it because of me. ThatÒs okay, though, because he got the restaurant because of me as well. ItÒs a long story from the weird world of Old Man Crawley. If youÒve heard of him, and who hasnÒt, youÒll know itÒs a story best kept at ten-foot-pole distance. Anyway, it all worked out in the end, because running a restaurant is what my dad always dreamed of doing.
        We all quickly found out, however, that when you have a restaurant, you donÒt run it, it runs you. We all got sucked in. Mom fills in when there arenÒt enough waitresses, IÒm constantly on call to bus tables, and my little sister Christina folds napkins into animal shapes. Only my older brother Frankie gets out of it, on account of heÒs in college, and when heÒs home, he thinks heÒs too good to work in a restaurant.
        My particular skill is the pouring of water.
        DonÒt laugh×itÒs a real skill. I can pour from any height and never miss the glass. People applaud.
        Thanksgiving, we all knew, was going to be the big test. Not just of the restaurant, but of our family. See, Thanksgiving has always been big with us, on account of we got this massive extended family of aunts, uncles, cousins, and people I barely know who have various body parts resembling mine. ThatÒs what family is. But these days more and more people eat out on Thanksgiving, so Dad decided to offer a special Thanksgiving meal at Paris, CapisceØ instead of the usual big family meal at our house. That got the relatives all bent out of shape. We told them weÒre doing Thanksgiving at home one day late, but they flatly refused to postpone the holiday. Now weÒre family outcasts, at least until Christmas, when everyone will, in theory, kiss and make up. Dad knows better than to keep the restaurant open on Christmas, because Mom told him if he does, heÒd better set up a cot in the back room, because thatÒs where heÒll be sleeping for a while. Mom says things like this very directly, because my father is not good with subtle hints.
        As for Thanksgiving, Mom was very direct with the rest of us as well. ÓNone of youse are allowed to eat any turkey this Thursday, got itØ As far as youÒre concerned, Thanksgiving is on Friday.Ô
        ÓDo turkey hot dogs countØÔ I asked, because no direct order from my mother was complete unless I found a way around it. Not that I had plans to eat turkey hot dogs, but itÒs the principle of the thing. MomÒs response was a look that probably wilted the lettuce in the refrigerator.
        Part of her laying down of the law was that we werenÒt allowed to have a turkeyless Thanksgiving at friendsÒ houses either×because if we did, our own family Thanksgiving would feel like an afterthought. I didnÒt think IÒd really mind, but right now I didnÒt want to be alone with my thoughts. I was still feeling funny about the dead raccoon wrangler, and GunnarÒs terminal confession, but it was still a while until Mom and Dad wanted me at the restaurant.
        I tried to watch some football, and took to petting Ichabod, our cat, who was ninety-one in dog years, although I donÒt know what that means to a cat. But even Ichabod knew I was distracted, so he went off to watch ChristinaÒs hamsters run endlessly on their wheel. I suppose thatÒs the feline equivalent of going to the market and watching the rotisserie chicken, which is how my mom entertained me at the market when I was little.
        In the end, I left early, and took a long, wandering path to the restaurant. As I passed our local skate park, I saw one lonely soul sitting outside by the padlocked gate. I knew the kid, but not his name×only his nickname. He used to wear a shirt that said SKATERDUDE, but the E peeled off, and from that moment on he was eternally ÓSkaterdud.Ô Like my nickname, he had grown into it, and everyone agreed it suited him to a tee. He was lanky with massively matted red hair, pink spots all over his joints from old peeled scabs, and eyes that youÒd swear were looking into alternate dimensions, not all of them sane. God help the poor parents who see Skaterdud waiting at the door for their daughter on prom night.
        ÓHey, Dud,Ô I said as I approached.
        ÓHey.Ô He gave me his special eight-part handshake, and wouldnÒt continue the conversation until I got it right.
        ÓSo, no turkeyØÔ I asked.
        He smirked. ÓI ainÒt gonna miss not eatinÒ no dead bird, am IØÔ
        Skaterdud had his own language all full of double, triple, and sometimes quadruple negatives, so you never really knew if he meant what he said, or the opposite.
        ÓSo ... youÒre a veganØÔ I asked.
        ÓNaah.Ô He patted his stomach. ÓAte the dead bird early. What about youØÔ
        I shrugged, not wanting to get into it. ÓThis year weÒre celebrating Chinese Thanksgiving.Ô
        He raised his eyebrows knowingly. ÓYear of the Goat. Gotta love it.Ô
        ÓSo,Ô I asked, ÓisnÒt the skate park closed for the winterØ What, are you gonna sit here and wait till it reopens in the springØÔ
        He shook his head. ÓUnibrow said heÒd come down and open it for me today. But I donÒt see no Unibrow, do youØÔ
        I sat down and leaned against the fence, figuring that chatting with Skaterdud was as good a mental distraction as any. Kind of like playing Minesweeper with a human being. We talked about school, and I was amazed at how the Dud knew more details about his teachersÒ personal lives than he did about any given subject. We talked about his lipring, and how he got it to stop him from biting his nails. I nodded like I understood how the two things were related. And then we talked about Gunnar. I told him about GunnarÒs imminent death, and he looked down, picking at a peeling skull sticker on his helmet.
        ÓThat chews the churro, man,Ô said Skaterdud. ÓBut ya canÒt do nothinÒ about no bad freakinÒ luck, rightØ EverybodyÒs got a song on the fat ladyÒs list.Ô Then he thought for a second. ÓOf course I ainÒt got no worries, Øcause I know exactly when IÒm doing the dirt dance.Ô
        ÓWhaddaya meanØÔ
        ÓOh, yeah,Ô said the Dud. ÓI know exactly when IÒm croaking. A fortune-teller told me. She said IÒm dying when IÒm forty-nine by falling off the deck of an aircraft carrier.Ô
        ÓNo way!Ô
        ÓYeah. ThatÒs how come IÒm joining the navy. Because how screwed would it be to fall off an aircraft carrier when youÒre not even supposed to be thereØÔ
        Then he stood up and hurled his skateboard over the fence. ÓEnough of this noise.Ô He climbed the fence with the skill of a gecko, then looked back to me from the other side. ÓYou wanna come overØ IÒll teach you stuff the other kids gotta break bones to learn.Ô
        ÓMaybe another time. Nice talkinÒ.Ô
        ÓYeah,Ô he says, and heads off. In a moment he disappears over the concrete lip, and I can hear him zipping in and out of concrete ramps that were slick with patches of ice, not caring how dangerous it might be, because heÒs so sure heÒs safe for another thirty-four years.


***
        I got to the restaurant on time, but I felt like I was late because everything was in full swing. Since most of our Thanksgiving reservations were for later in the afternoon, my dad didnÒt expect it to get crowded until around two, and he didnÒt want me hanging around with nothing to do, since that was Óa recipe for disaster.Ô But they hadnÒt counted on all the holiday walk-ins. There werenÒt enough walk-ins to fill the restaurant, but it sure was enough to make my father run around like a maniac, which made my mother do the same. Only my sister Christina was calm as she folded napkins into swans and unicorns, and placed them at each table. Dad had given most of his staff Thanksgiving off, since heÒs such a pushover, so that meant more work for the family.
        Just watching my dad work is enough to exhaust you. HeÒs like the plate spinner at the circus×heÒs got to keep everything going, see everything at once. Maybe itÒs because heÒs overcompensating. He doesnÒt have any formal training in running a restaurant, just a head full of great recipes, and a rich, cranky old business partner willing to give him a chance.
        ÓOld Man Crawley is a very hard man to please,Ô my dad had told me. Having worked for Crawley myself last year×as the walker of his many dogs, among other things×I knew more than anyone how hard he was to please. Used to be my dad worked long hours in a job that he hated. Now he works longer hours in a job that he loves, but he seems just as brain-dead at the end of the day.
        Anyway, when Dad saw me come in, he took a moment out of the mania to give me a hug, and a mini neck massage.
        ÓWater-pouring muscles all readyØÔ he asked. It was a bit of an inside joke, on account of my shoulder muscles used to lock into a shrug after my first few days as a busboy. Who knew pouring water could be so strenuous.
        ÓYeah,Ô I told him.
        ÓGood,Ô he said. ÓCause one of these days theyÒre gonna make ØThe Water PourÒ an Olympic event, and I expect to see nothing but gold.Ô He handed me an apron, slapped me on the back, then went back to work. I really like being around my dad early in the day, before the stress turns him into what we in our family like to call ÓDarth Menu.Ô
        Pretty soon my mind was occupied pouring water and taking away dirty plates, but thoughts of the doomed raccoon guy and Gunnar never entirely faded into the background.
        By 6 P.M., we were already into our second seating, and I was a bit grumpy, because I kept taking away all these plates of food, but I couldnÒt eat any of it myself. Both Mom and Dad had come up with great Thanksgiving recipes that fit the French/Italian theme of the restaurant. Pumpkin Parmesan Quiche, and Turkey Rollatini au Vin×stuff like that. I got so hungry I would pick at some of the leftovers I took away from the tables, and that got me a whack on the head from Mom. While the skeleton crew of regular staff had breaks every few hours, family members were slaves today, and I resented it.
        So IÒm moving plates and pouring water, and I canÒt help thinking that here are all these people stuffing their fat faces, while some poor slob died simply because he got stuck holding on to a balloon×and then there was Gunnar. How could these people eat when he was suffering from pulmowhachamacallitØ
        ThatÒs when it happened. The glass of ice water I was pouring overflowed. The moment I realized it, I jerked the pitcher back, but that only succeeded in sloshing ice cubes onto the womanÒs dinner plate.
        ÓOops!Ô Then I reached onto her plate like an idiot and started plucking ice cubes out of her Garlique Yam Puree with my bare fingers.
        ÓANTSY!Ô
        Like I said, my dad saw everything all at once in the restaurant, and I had been caught red-handed×or orange-handed, as it were.
        ÓWhat do you think youÒre doingØ!Ô
        ÓI... I spilled. I was just×"
        ÓItÒs all right,Ô said the woman. ÓNo harm done.Ô
        But she was wrong about that. ÓWeÒll get you a new plate right away,Ô my father said. ÓIÒm sorry for the trouble. Your meal is on the house.Ô
        By now my mom and the other waitress had come over to help clean up the spill. Dad handed me the plate of food and pointed to the kitchen. ÓTake this away and wait for me.Ô
        He apologized to the woman again, and maybe even a third time. I donÒt know because I was already in the kitchen, cleaning off the plate and awaiting judgment. It wasnÒt long in coming. In just a few seconds, he was there, all fire and brimstone. I could tell the day had already burned him out, and he had gone over to the Dark Side.
        ÓI canÒt believe what you did in there! Where is your headØÔ
        ÓDad, it was just a spill! I said I was sorry!Ô
        ÓJust a spillØ Your fingers were in her food! Do you have any idea how many health codes you brokeØÔ
        IÒll admit that I deserved to be reprimanded, but he was out of control.
        ThatÒs when Mom poked her head in, and said in a whisper that was louder than most people scream, ÓWill you keep it downØ The whole restaurant can hear you!Ô
        But Dad was a runaway train. ÓHow could you be so irresponsibleØÔ
        ÓWell, maybe I have something else on my mind!Ô
        ÓNo! When youÒre here, you canÒt have anything else on your mind!Ô
        ÓWhy donÒt you just fire meØÔ I snapped. ÓOh, thatÒs right, you canÒt fire me×because I donÒt actually work here, do IØÔ
        ÓYou know what, AntsyØ Just go home.Ô
        ÓFine, I will!Ô And for my parting shot, I dipped my finger in the big pot of Garlique Yam Puree, and licked it off.


***
        It was long after dark now, and the walk home was freezing. I thought my brother Frankie might be at home to keep me company, since he was back from Binghamton for the weekend, but he was off with friends, so I had nothing to do but hang out and stew.
        The phone rang at about eight-thirty. On the other end was Old Man Crawley, who owned more of my fatherÒs restaurant than my father did. Getting a call from Crawley was worse than getting chewed out by my dad.
        ÓI understand service was sloppy tonight,Ô Crawley said.
        ÓDid my father tell you thatØÔ
        ÓI havenÒt spoken with your father. I sent an observer to eat at the restaurant.Ô
        ÓYou sent a spy to your own restaurantØÔ
        ÓEspionage is a common business practice.Ô
        ÓAgainst yourselfØÔ
        ÓApparently it was warranted.Ô
        I sighed. Old Man Crawley had more eyes in more places than anyone I knew. I wouldnÒt be surprised if right now he told me to stop picking my nose.
        In case youÒve been living under a rock, I oughta tell you a little bit about Old Man Crawley, or ÓCreepy Crawley,Ô as all the little kids call him. The guyÒs a legend in Brooklyn×the kind you really donÒt believe until you actually meet him, but by then itÒs too late to run. HeÒs very rich, very selfish, and generally mean. HeÒs the kind of guy whoÒd hand out vomit-inducing candy on Halloween, and then sell Pepto-Bismol across the street at jacked-up prices.
        IÒm one of the few people who actually knows him, on account of heÒs mostly a hermit. He used to be entirely a hermit, until he hired me to walk his dogs and to date his granddaughter, Lexie, whoÒs blind, but has managed to make her blindness seem like a mere technicality. Pretty soon dating her stopped being a job, and it became real, much to Old Man CrawleyÒs disgust. There was this one time Lexie and I kidnapped Crawley, and forced him to see the outside world. He liked it so much he now has us kidnap him on a regular basis.
        The weird thing is that I kind of like him. Maybe itÒs because I understand him×or maybe itÒs because IÒm the only person who can call him a nasty old fart to his face and get away with it. I canÒt quite say that Crawley and I are friends, but he dislikes me less than he dislikes most other people. Still, with Crawley, the line between tolerance and disgust is very thin.
        ÓIf you give me the details of tonightÒs incident, maybe I wonÒt have to ask your father about it,Ô Crawley said.
        There was no sense in lying to Old Man Crawley. No sense sugarcoating it either, so I told it to him as plainly, and as simply, as I could. ÓI spilled some water, and plucked ice cubes off some womanÒs plate, so my father had to give her a free meal. Then he sent me home.Ô
        A long silence on the other end. I could hear dogs barking in the background, and then Crawley said, ÓI am amazed, Anthony, by your continuing ability to disappoint me.Ô And then he hung up without as much as a good-bye.
        Mom came home at about ten that night, with Christina practically asleep in her arms. I knew Dad wouldnÒt be home until past midnight. It was like that all the time, since he opened the restaurant. On this particular night, though, I didnÒt mind.
        My mom came into my room once she got Christina off to bed. ØYou gotta understand, Antsy, your fatherÒs under a lot of pressure.Ô
        ÒYeah, well, he doesnÒt have to take it out on me.Ô
        ÓHe doesnÒt mean to.Ô
        ÓBlah, blah, blah.Ô
        She sat on the edge of my bed. ÓThe restaurantÒs not doing as well as he would like. Mr. Crawley keeps threatening to pull the plug.Ô
        I sat up, and before she could launch into the Top Ten Reasons Why I Should Cut My Father Some Slack, I said, ÓI get it, okayØ But just because I get it doesnÒt mean I gotta like it.Ô
        She patted my leg, then left, satisfied.
        When Dad got home around midnight, he made a point to stop by my room. Even before he spoke, I could tell that Darth Menu had left the building.
        ÓThings goodØÔ he asked.
        Since there was no short answer, I just said, ÓThings are things.Ô
        ÓSo,Ô he asked, with a crooked little smile. ÓDid you at least like the Garlique Yam PureeØÔ
        This, I knew, was an apology.
        Yeah, it was good,Ô I said. ÓAll your stuff is good.Ô
        This, he knew, was me accepting his apology.
        ÓGood night, Antsy.Ô
        After he left, I turned off my TV and tried to get to sleep. As I lay there, at the place where your thoughts start to break apart and stop making sense, the dayÒs events began to swim into a soup of raccoon, ice water, and terminal illness. Like Gunnar had said, life is a fragile thing. One moment you could be marching happily in a parade, the next youÒre hanging from the Empire State Building. Sometimes itÒs because of the choices you make, or sometimes youÒre just careless×but most of the time itÒs just dumb luck×and in my experience few things are dumber than luck, except for maybe Wendell Tiggor, whose brain cells communicate by smoke signal.
        Luck was about to take some pretty weird bounces, though. It never occurred to me how something as simple as a pitcher of ice water could change a personÒs life ... or how a single piece of paper could change the course of an incurable disease.

3. Why ÓNeuroToxinÔ Is Now My Favorite Word in the English Language



        Pulmonary Monoxic Systemia. Very rare. Very fatal. Basically the body, which is supposed to turn oxygen into carbon dioxide, turns it into carbon monoxide instead×the stuff in car exhaust that kills you if you breathe it long enough. In other words, when youÒve got Pulmonary Monoxic Systemia, your own body fails the smog check, and youÒre eventually poisoned by the very air you breathe. I think IÒd rather fall from a giant inflatable raccoon.
        There are several different ways to respond when you find out that someone you know has something weird and incurable. Your response all depends on the type of person you are. There are basically three types.
        Type One: The ÓI-didnÒt-hear-thatÔ people. These are the ones who just go on with life, pretending that nothing is wrong. These are the people who would be sitting in Starbucks during an alien invasion, arguing the virtues of Splenda over Equal. You know this person. We all do.
        Type Two: The Ónot-in-my-airspaceÔ people. These are the ones who believe that everything is somehow contagious and would probably start taking antibiotics if their computer got a virus. These people would do everything within their power to avoid the terminally ill person, and then say, ÓI wish we had more time with him,Ô once the farm had been bought.
        Type Three: The ÓI-can-fix-thisÔ people. These people, against all logic, believe they can change the course of mighty rivers with their bare hands, even thought they canÒt swim, and so usually end up drowning.
        I come from a family of drowners.
        I guess I follow in the family tradition×because even though I couldnÒt even pronounce the illness that Gunnar had, I was convinced that I could somehow help him live longer. By the time I went back to school on Monday, I had already decided that I wanted to do something Meaningful for him. I wasnÒt sure what it would be, only that it would be Meaningful. Now keep in mind this was before I met Kjersten, so my intentions werenÒt selfish yet. I was being what they call Óaltruistic,Ô which means doing good deeds for no sensible reason×and having no sensible reason for doing things is kind of where I live.
        I knew IÒd be on my own in figuring this one out×or at least I wasnÒt going to ask for help from my family. Talking to Dad about it was out of the question, because all of his mental wall space was covered with restaurant reservations. I couldnÒt tell my mom, because the second I did, sheÒd get that pained expression on her face and be on my case about praying for Gunnar. Not that I wouldnÒt pray for Gunnar, but I probably would be strategic about it. I wouldnÒt do it until he was on his deathbed, because the way I see it, praying is like trying to win an Academy Award; you donÒt want to come out praying too early, or you get forgotten when itÒs time for the nominations.
        I considered telling Frankie or Christina, but Frankie would just try to top it by telling me all the people he knew who died. As for Christina, traumatizing her with this was a bit different from telling her our basement was sealed off because of the zombies. Besides, who goes to their younger sister for adviceØ She does have a spiritual streak, though, IÒll admit that. In fact, lately IÒve found her sitting in her room, in lotus position, trying to levitate. She read somewhere that monks in the Himalayas have special spiritual mantras they repeat over and over that will make them float in midair. IÒm open to all possibilities, but I told Christina that her mantra of ÓAma Gonna LevitatoÔ sounded more Harry Potter than Himalaya.
        No, this whole thing needed to fly under my familyÒs radar for a while.


***
        Few things got by our school radar, however. It could have been Howie or Ira who overheard Gunnar at the Empire State Building×or maybe Gunnar had been selectively confiding in other kids as well. Whatever the reason, GunnarÒs life-span issue was all the whisper around school on Monday.
        That was the day we had to sign up for John Steinbeck lit circles in English class. Apparently Of Mice and Men was just a prelude to a whole lot of reading. I showed up a few minutes late, and all the short books like The Red Pony were gone, leaving monsters like The Grapes of Wrath and East of Eden.
        Gunnar and I were in English together, and I noticed that he was in the Grapes of Wrath group. The Cannery Row group consisted of Wendell Tiggor and the tiggorhoids×which is what we called all the human moths that fluttered around TiggorÒs dim bulb. I make it a habit never to join any group where IÒm the smartest member, so I put my name under GunnarÒs and prayed that The Grapes of Wrath wasnÒt as deep as it was long. If nothing else, it would give me a chance to get to know Gunnar better, and figure out what Meaningful thing I could do for him.
        After class he came up to me. ÓSo I see weÒre both in the Group of Wrath,Ô he said. ÓWhy donÒt you come over after school×IÒve got the movie on DVD.Ô
        It was pretty bad timing, because just then Mrs. Casey, our English teacher, was passing by. ÓThatÒs cheating, Mr. Umlaut,Ô she said.
        ÓNo,Ô I offered, without missing a beat. ÓItÒs research.Ô
        She raised an eyebrow as she considered this. ÓIn that case, IÒm assigning you both to compare and contrast the book with the movie.Ô Then she struts off, very pleased with herself. Gunnar sighed. ÓSorry about that.Ô
        I leaned closer to him and whispered, ÓItÒs okay×I think my brotherÒs got the CliffÒs Notes.Ô And from the far end of the hall Mrs. Casey yells back, ÓDonÒt even think about it!Ô


***
        Going over to someoneÒs house you barely know is always an adventure of strange smells, strange sights, and strange dogs that will either yap at you or sniff places youÒd rather not be sniffed. But thereÒs interesting things at unexplored homes as well, like a giant tank of Chinese water dragons, or a home theater better than the multiplex, or a goddess answering the door.
        In the UmlautsÒ case, it was choice number three: the goddess. Her name was Kjersten, pronounced ÓKirstenÔ (the j is silent×donÒt ask me how thatÒs possible) and she was the last person I expected to see at GunnarÒs house. Kjersten is a junior, and exists on a plane high above us mere mortals×and not just because of her height. She doesnÒt fit the mold of your typical beautiful girl. SheÒs not a cheerleader, sheÒs not part of the popular crowd×in fact, the popular crowd hates her, because KjerstenÒs very presence points out to them how pitiful they really are. She is a straight-A student, rules the debate team, is on the tennis team, is practically six feet tall, and as for other parts of her, well, letÒs just say that the lettering on her T-shirt is like one of those movies in 3-D.
        ÓHi, Antsy.Ô
        My response was a perfect imitation of Porky Pig. ÓIbbidibibbiby-dibbity...Ô The fact that Kjersten even knew I existed was too much information for me to process.
        She gave a little laugh. ÓNeuroToxin,Ô she said.
        ÓHuhØÔ
        ÓYou were looking at my shirt.Ô She pointed to the logo on her chest. ÓItÒs the band NeuroToxin×I got it at their concert last month.Ô
        ÒYeah, yeah, right.Ô To be honest, in spite of where my eyes were staring, my brain had turned everything between her neck and her navel into that digital blur they put up on TV when they donÒt want you to see something. Her shirt could have had the answers to tomorrowÒs math test on it and I wouldnÒt have known.
        ÓWhat are you doing hereØÔ I said, like a perfect imbecile.
        She gave me a funny look. ÓWhere else would I beØ I live here.Ô
        ÓWhy do you live with the UmlautsØÔ
        She laughed again. ÓUh ... maybe because I am an UmlautØÔ
        With my brain somewhere between here and Jupiter, I was only now catching on. ÓSo youÒre GunnarÒs sisterØÔ
        ÓLast I checked.Ô
        The concept that Kjersten could be the sister of someone I actually knew had never occurred to me. I suppressed the urge to do another Porky Pig, swallowed, and said, ÓCan I come in, pleaseØÔ
        ÓSure thing.Ô Then she called to Gunnar, letting him know that I was here. I shivered when she said my name again, and hoped she hadnÒt seen.
        There was no response from Gunnar×the only thing I heard was a faint, high-pitched banging sound.
        ÓHeÒs out back working on that thing " Kjersten said. ÓJust go on through the kitchen and out the back door.Ô
        I thanked her, tried not to stare at any part of her whatsoever, and went into the house. As I passed through the kitchen I saw their mother×a woman who looked like an older, plumper version of Kjersten.
        ÓHello!Ô she said when she saw me, looking up from some vegetables she was cleaning in the sink. ÓYou must be a friend of GunnarÒs. Will you stay for dinnerØ
        Her accent was much heavier than I expected it to be, considering Gunnar and Kjersten barely had any accent at all.
        DinnerØ I thought. That would mean IÒd be at the same dinner table with Kjersten, and the moment I thought that, my own motherÒs voice intruded into my head, telling me that I used utensils like an orangutang. Whenever Mom said that, I would respond by telling her that orangutan had no g at the end and then go on shoveling food into my mouth like a lower primate. My eating habits didnÒt matter with my last girlfriend, Lexie, on account of sheÒs blind. She would just get mad when I scraped the fork against my teeth, so as long as I ate quietly, I could be as apelike as I pleased.
        Now, thanks to my own stubbornness, I had no practice in fine dining skills. Kjersten would take one look at the way I held my knife and fork, would burst out laughing, and share the information with whatever higher life-forms she communed with.
        I knew if I dwelt on this much longer, I would either talk myself out of it or my head would explode, so I said, ÓSure, IÒll stay for dinner.Ô IÒd deal with the consequences later.
        ÓAntsy, is that youØÔ Gunnar called from the backyard, where the loud tapping sound was coming from.
        ÓMaybe,Ô Mrs. Umlaut said quietly, Óyou shall get him away from that thing he works on.Ô
        Gunnar was, indeed, working on a thing. I wondered at first if it was something for our Grapes of Wrath project. It was a stone sculpture. Granite or marble, I guessed. He was tapping away at it with a hammer and chisel. He hadnÒt gotten too far, because the block of stone was still pretty square. ÓHi, Gunnar,Ô I said. ÓI didnÒt know you were an artist.Ô
        ÓNeither did I.Ô
        He continued his tapping. There were uneven letters toward the edge of the block. G-U-N. He was already working on the second N. I laughed. ÓYou gotta make the sculpture before you sign it, Gunnar.Ô
        ÓItÒs not that kind of sculpture.Ô
        It took me a moment more until I got the big picture, and the moment I realized just what Gunnar was doing, I blurted out one of those words my mother smacks me for.
        Gunnar was carving his own tombstone.
        ÓGunnar... thatÒs just... wrong.Ô
        He stood back to admire his work. ÓWell, the letters arenÒt exactly even, but that will add to the overall effect.Ô
        ÓThatÒs not what I mean.Ô
        He looked at me, read what must have been a pretty unpleasant expression on my face, and said, ÓYouÒre just like my parents. You have an unhealthy attitude. Did you know that in ancient Egypt the Pharaohs began planning their own tombs when they were still youngØÔ
        ÓYeah, but youÒre Swedish,Ô I reminded him. ÓThere arenÒt any pyramids in Sweden.Ô
        He finished off the second N. ÓThatÒs only because Vikings werenÒt good with stone.Ô
        I found myself involuntarily looking around for an escape route, and wondered if maybe I was a Ónot-in-my-airspaceÔ type after all.
        Then Gunnar starts launching into all this talk about death throughout history, and how people in Borneo put their departed loved ones in big ceramic pots and keep them in the living room, which is worse than anything IÒve told my sister about our basement. So IÒm getting all nauseous and stuff, and his mother calls out, ÓDinnerÒs ready,Ô and I pray to God sheÒs not serving out of a Crock-Pot.
        ÓBorrowed time, Antsy,Ô he said. ÓIÒm living on borrowed time.Ô
        It annoyed me, because he wasnÒt living on borrowed time×he was living on his own time, at least for six months, and I could think of better things to do with that time than carving a tombstone.
        ÓWill you just shut up!Ô I told him.
        He looked at me, hurt. ÓI thought you of all people would understand.Ô
        ÓWhaddaya mean Øme of all peopleÒØ Do you know something I donÒtØÔ
        We both looked away. He said, ÓWhen that guy . . . the other day . . . you know . . . when he fell from Roadkyll Raccoon ... everyone else was staring like it was some show, but you and I... we had respect enough to look away. So I thought youÒd have respect for me, too.Ô He glanced at the unfinished gravestone before him. ÓAnd respect for this.Ô
        I hadnÒt meant to hurt his feelings, but it was hard to respect a homemade gravestone. ÓI donÒt know, Gunnar,Ô I said. ÓItÒs like youÒre getting all Hamlet on me and stuff. I swear, if you start walking around with a skull, and saying Øto-be-or-not-to-be,Ò IÒm outta here.Ô
        He looked at me coldly, and said, insulted, ÓHamlet was from Denmark, not Sweden.Ô
        I shrugged. ÓWhatÒs the differenceØÔ
        And to that he said, ÓGet out of my house.Ô
        But since we were in his backyard, and not in his house, I stayed put. He made no move to physically remove me from his presence, so I figured he was bluffing. I looked at that stupid rock that said GUNN in crooked letters. He had already returned to carving. I could hear that his breathing sounded a little bit strained, and wondered whether that was normal, or if the illness was already making it difficult for him to breathe. I had looked up the disease online×Pulmonary Monoxic Systemia had symptoms that could go mostly unnoticed, until the end, when your lips got cyanotic×which means they turn blue, like they do when youÒre swimming in a pool someoneÒs too stinking cheap to heat. GunnarÒs lips werenÒt blue, but he was pale, and he did get dizzy and light-headed from time to time. Those were symptoms, too. The more I thought I about it, the worse I felt about being so harsh over the tombstone.
        Then, on a whim, I reached into my backpack, pulled out a notebook and pen, and began writing something.
        ÓWhat are you doingØÔ
        ÓYouÒll see.Ô
        When I was done, I tore the page out of the notebook, held it up, and read it aloud. ÓÒI hereby give one month of my life to Gunnar Umlaut. Signed, Anthony Bonano.ÒÔ I handed it to him. ÓThere. Now youÒve got borrowed time. Seven months instead of six months×so you donÒt gotta start digging your own grave for a while.

        Gunnar took it from me, looked it over, and said, ÓThis doesnÒt mean anything.Ô
        I expected him to launch into some Shakespearean speech about the woes of mortality, but instead he showed me the paper, pointing to my signature, and said, ÓItÒs not signed by a witness. A legal document must be signed by a witness.Ô
        I waited for him to start laughing, but he didnÒt.
        ÓA witnessØÔ
        ÓYes. It should also be typed, and then signed in blue ink. My fatherÒs a lawyer, so I know about these things.Ô
        I still couldnÒt tell whether or not he was kidding. Usually I can read people×but Gunnar, being Swedish and all, is as hard to figure out as IKEA assembly instructions; even if I think IÒm reading him right, itÒs guaranteed IÒve done something wrong and IÒll have to start over.
        Since his expression stayed serious, I thought of something to say that sounded seriously legal. ÓIÒll take it under advisement.Ô
        He grinned and slapped me hard on the back. ÓExcellent. So letÒs have dinner and watch The Grapes of Wrath.Ô


***
        Five places were set for dinner×including one for Mr. Umlaut, who was presumably working late, but would be home Óeventually.Ô Mrs. Umlaut made hamburgers, although I was expecting something more Scandinavian. I knew about Scandinavian food on account of this Norwegian smorgasbord place my family once accidentally ate at, because it was called D0NNYÒS and my parents thought the 0 was an e. Anyway, there was a lot of food at the buffet, including like fourteen thousand kinds of herring×which I wouldnÒt touch, but it was satisfying to know there were so many different things I could refuse to eat. I was oddly disappointed that not a single form of herring was on the UmlautsÒ menu.
        Sitting at the UmlautsÒ dinner table that night was not the nerve-racking ordeal I had thought it would be. No one talked about GunnarÒs illness, and I didnÒt say anything too terribly stupid. I talked about the proper placing of silverware, and the cultural reasons for it×something my father made sure to teach me, since I had to put out place settings at the restaurant. It made me look sophisticated, and balanced out anything subhuman I might have done at the table. I even demonstrated my water-pouring skill, pouring from high above the table, and not spilling a drop. It made Kjersten laugh×and I was pretty certain she was laughing with me instead of at me×although by the time I got home, I wasnÒt so sure.
        Mr. Umlaut didnÒt make it in time for dinner. Considering how much my own father worked lately, I didnÒt think much of it.


***
        Dad came home early from work that night with a massive headache. Nine-thirty×thatÒs early by restaurant standards. He sat at the dining table with a laptop, crunching numbers, all of which were coming up red.
        ÓYou could change your preferences in the program,Ô I suggested. ØYou could make all those negative numbers from the restaurant come up green, or at least blue.Ô
        He chuckled at that. ÓYou think we could program my laptop to charm the bank so we donÒt have to pay our mortgageØÔ
        ÓYouÒd need a sexier laptop,Ô I told him.
        ÓStory of my life,Ô he answered.
        I thought about talking to him about Gunnar, but his worries tonight outweighed mine. ÓDonÒt work too hard,Ô I told him×which is what he always said to me. Of course he usually said it when I was lying on the sofa like a slowly rotting vegetable.
        Before I went to bed that night, I took a moment to think about the various weirdnesses that had gone on in GunnarÒs backyard that afternoon×particularly the way he acted when I gave him that silly piece of paper. I had written it just to give him a laugh, and maybe get him to shift gears away from dying and stuff. Had he actually taken me seriouslyØ
        I opened a blank document on my computer, and typed out a single sentence. Then I pulled up the thesaurus, changed a few key words, found a really official-looking font, put the whole thing in a hairline box, and printed it out:
        I, Anthony Paul Bonano, being of sound mind and body, do hereby bequeath one month of my natural life to Gunnar Umlaut.
        Signature
        Signature of Witness
        I have to confess, I almost didnÒt sign it. I almost crumpled the thing and tossed it into the trash, because it was giving me the creeps. IÒm not a particularly superstitious guy ... but I do have moments. We all do. Like, when youÒre walking on the street, and you start thinking about that old step-on-a-crack rhyme. DonÒt you×at least for a few steps×avoid the cracksØ ItÒs not like you really think youÒre gonna break your motherÒs back, rightØ But you avoid the cracks anyway. And when somebody sneezes, and you say ÓGod bless you,Ô youÒre not saying it to chase away evil spirits×which is why people used to say it in the old days×but you donÒt feel right if you donÒt say it.
        So here I am, looking at this very legal-looking piece of paper, and wondering what it means to sign away one month of my life. And then I think, if this was an actual contract×if it was true and somewhere in the Great Beyond a tally of days was being kept×would I still do it, and give Gunnar an extra monthØ
        Sure I would.
        I knew that without even having to think about it.
        So I bit back the creepy step-on-a-crack feeling, got a blue pen, and signed my name. Then, during my first class the next morning, I got Ira to sign as witness.
        And thatÒs when things began to get weird.

4. Photo Ops, Flulike Symptoms, and Trident Exchange in the Hallway of Life



        There are very few things IÒve done in my life that I would consider truly inspired. Like the time I e-mailed everyone at school to tell Howie his pants were on backward. After dozens of people pulled him aside to tell him, he finally gave in to peer pressure, went into the bathroom, and turned his pants around, so they really were on backward.
        That was inspired.
        Giving Gunnar a month of my life×that was inspired, too. The problem with inspiration, though, is that itÒs kind of like the flu×once one person gets it, it spreads and spreads until pretty soon everyoneÒs all congested and hawking up big wads of inspiration. It happens whether you want it to or not, and thereÒs no vaccination.
        I tracked Gunnar down in the hallway between third and fourth periods that day, and presented him with his extra month, officially signed and witnessed.
        He read it over, and looked at me with the kind of gaze you donÒt want a guy giving you in a public hallway.
        ÓAntsy,Ô Gunnar said, Óthere are no words to express how this makes me feel.Ô
        Which was good, because words might have made me awkwardly emotional, and that would attract Dewey Lopez, the school photographer×who was famous for exposing emotions whenever possible. Such as the time he caught star football jock Woody Wilson bawling his eyes out in the locker room after losing the first game that season. In reality, Woody was crying because had just punched his locker and broken three knuckles, but nobody remembers that part×they just remember the picture×so he got stuck with the nickname ÓWailing Woody,Ô which will probably stick to him like a kick-me sign for the rest of his life.
        So here we are, Gunnar and me, standing there all ripe for a humiliating Kodak moment, and Gunnar finds the words I had wished he wouldnÒt: ÓAs Lewis once said to Clark, ØHe who would give his life for a friend is more valuable than the Louisiana Purchase, entire.ÒÔ And now all I can think about is what if he hugs me×and what if Dewey gets a picture, and IÒm known as ÓEmbraceable AntsyÔ for all eternityØ
        But instead Gunnar looks at the paper again and says, ÓOf course you didnÒt specify which month youÒre giving me.Ô
        ÓHuhØÔ
        ÓWell, each month has a different value, doesnÒt itØ September has thirty days, October has thirty-one, and letÒs not even mention February!Ô
        I have to admit, I was a little stunned by this, but thatÒs okay, since stunned is an emotion I can handle. It is, in fact, an acceptable state for me. I was willing to go with GunnarÒs practical approach×after all, he was the one who was dying, and I wasnÒt going to question how he dealt with it. I did some quick counting on my fingers. ÓYou got six months left, rightØ A seventh month would put you into May. So IÒm giving you May.Ô
        ÓExcellent!Ô Gunnar slaps me on the back. ÓMy birthdayÒs in May!Ô
        ThatÒs when Mary Ellen McCaw descends out of nowhere, grabs the paper away from Gunnar, and says, ÓWhatÒs thisØÔ
        Just so you know, Mary Ellen McCaw is the under-eighteen gossip queen of Brooklyn. SheÒs constantly sniffing out juicy dirt, and since her nose is roughly the size of Rhode Island, sheÒs better than a bloodhound when it comes to sniffing. IÒm sure she knew about GunnarÒs illness; in fact, she was probably responsible for broadcasting the information across New York, and maybe parts of New Jersey.
        ÓGive it back!Ô I demanded, but she just holds the thing out of reach, and reads it. Then she looks at me like IÒve just arrived from a previously unknown planet.
        ÒYouÒre giving him a month of your lifeØÔ
        ÓYeah. So whatØÔ
        ÓGiving Gunnar a new lease on lifeØ Antsy, thatÒs so sweet!Ô
        This leaves me furtherly stunned, because no one has ever called me sweet×especially not Mary Ellen McCaw, who never had a nice word to say about anybody. I figure at first that maybe she means it as an insult, but the look on her face is sincere.
        ÓWhat a nice thought!Ô she says.
        I shrug. ÓItÒs just a piece of paper.Ô
        But who was I kiddingØ This thing was already much more than a stupid piece of paper. Mary Ellen turns from me to Gunnar, and bats her eyes at him. ÓCan I donate a month of my life, tooØÔ
        I look at her, wondering if sheÒs kidding, but clearly sheÒs not.
        Gunnar, all flattered, gives her an aw-shucks look and says, ÓSure, if you really want to.Ô
        ÓGood, then itÒs settled,Ô says Mary Ellen. ÓAntsy, you write up the contract, okayØÔ
        I donÒt say anything just yet, as IÒm still set on stun.
        ÓRemember to specify the month,Ô says Gunnar.
        ÓAnd,Ô adds Mary Ellen, Ómake sure it says that the month comes from the end of my life, not the middle somewhere.Ô
        ÓHow could it come from the middleØÔ I dare to ask.
        ÓI donÒt know×temporary coma, maybeØ The point is, even a symbolic gesture should be clear of loopholes, rightØÔ
        Who was I to argue with logic like thatØ


***
        ÓSo whatÒs it like at the UmlautsÒØÔ
        Howie and Ira were all over me in the lunchroom that day, as if going over to the UmlautsÒ was like setting foot in a haunted house.
        ÓWas there medical stuff everywhereØÔ Howie asked. ÓMy uncle had to build a room addition just for his iron lung×the thingÒs as big as a car.Ô
        ÓI didnÒt see anything like that,Ô I told them. ÓItÒs not that kind of illness.Ô
        ÓIt must have been weird, though,Ô Ira said. I considered telling them about GunnarÒs do-it-yourself tombstone, but decided not to turn something so personal into gossip.
        ÓIt was fine,Ô I told them. ÓTheyÒre just a normal family. The dadÒs always off working. Their momÒs pretty cool, and Kjersten and Gunnar are just like any other brother and sister.Ô
        ÓKjersten ...Ô Ira said, and he and Howie gave each other a knowing grin. ÓDid you get some quality time with herØÔ
        ÓActually, I did. We all had dinner together.Ô Ira and Howie were disappointed at how normal the whole thing was, considering. Still, it didnÒt stop them from being envious that I actually got to eat a whole meal with Kjersten. I didnÒt even have to exaggerate. The more I downplayed it, the more jealous they became.
        ThereÒs something to be said about being the envy of your friends. They made some of the standard rude jokes friends will make about beautiful girls out of their reach×the same ones I was tempted to make myself, but didnÒt. Then the conversation came back to the subject of death, which is just as compelling and almost as distant as sex.
        ÓWere they all religious and stuffØÔ Ira asked. ÓPeople always get that way when someone gets sick×remember HowieÒs parents when they thought he had mad cowØÔ
        ÓDonÒt remind me,Ô says Howie.
        I thought about it, but didnÒt remember anything like that at the UmlautsÒ. They didnÒt say grace like we do at my house when someone remembers to. Ira was right×if Gunnar was my kid, IÒd be saying grace all the time.
        ÓHis mom doesnÒt talk about his illness at all,Ô I told them. ÓI guess thatÒs how they deal with it. ItÒs creepy, because thereÒs always, like, an elephant in the room.Ô
        Then Howie looks at me with those drowning-penguin eyes, and I know where this is going.
        ÓYouÒre joking rightØ Is that even legalØÔ
        ÒYeah,Ô I tell him, without missing a beat. ÓItÒs housebroken, too, and can paint modern art with its trunk.Ô
        ÓOkay,Ô Howie says, getting mad, Ónow youÒre just making stuff up.Ô
        I could keep this going for hours, but Ira chimes in. ÓItÒs an expression, Howie. When somethingÒs completely obvious but everyoneÒs ignoring it, you say ØthereÒs an elephant in the roomÒ×because, just like an elephant, itÒs big and fat, and hard to ignore.Ô
        Howie thinks about it and nods. ÓI get it,Ô he says. ÓAlthough that kind of weight gain could be glandular. Is it his motherØÔ
        This time Ira doesnÒt even throw him a life preserver.


***
        That afternoon I had a second hallway encounter. It was one of those moments that gets burned into your brain like a cigarette on a leather couch. IÒm convinced it left me with brain damage.
        It was just before last period. I was scrambling to get my math book out of my locker before the tardy bell when I heard a familiar voice behind me saying my name for the third time in as many days.
        ÓAntsyØÔ
        I turned to see none other than Kjersten Umlaut behind me. Her eyes were all moist and shiny, and the first thing that struck my brain was that Kjersten was even more beautiful in tears.
        ÓI heard about what you did for Gunnar,Ô she said.
        IÒm figuring maybe sheÒs gonna slap me for it, so I say, ØYeah, sorry about that. It was a dumb idea.Ô
        ÓI just wanted you to know how thoughtful it was.Ô
        ÓReallyØÔ
        ÓReally. And I wanted to thank you.Ô
        And thatÒs when it happened. She kissed me. I think maybe she meant to give me a little peck on the cheek, but I had just closed my locker and was turning, so the kiss landed a bullÒs-eye on the mouth.
        Okay×now youÒd think this would be the stuff of dreams and fireworks and time-stopping, Matrix-like special effects, rightØ The thing is, that only happens when youÒre expecting it and have time to set the moment up. But this was sudden. It was kind of like overcranking a cold car engine. It just grinds instead of starting. And so, what should have been the kiss from heaven was instead the lip-lock from hell.
        See, I had just come back from phys ed, where we were running outside in the cold, so my nose was kinda stuffy and I was doing a whole lot of mouth breathing. In other words, my mouth is open like a fish when she comes at me.
        The second it happens, a million volts go shooting through my head, and itÒs too much to handle, so my brain decides to take a Hawaiian vacation×I can almost hear the jet engines as it takes off from LaGuardia×and now the only thing in my head is gratitude that I got my braces off last month, followed immediately by horror, because now sheÒs getting nothing but retainer, and why did I pick today of all days to have salami for lunch, and would the brownie I ate afterward provide enough cover, and whereÒs that mint flavor coming fromØ
        Then in a second IÒm hearing bells, and I think itÒs some sort of mental shell shock, until I realize itÒs the tardy bell, which means IÒll get detention, but none of that matters, because thereÒs Dewey Lopez with his camera, preserving the moment for eternity and saying, ÓThanks, guys, that oneÒs a keeper!Ô and heÒs gone, maybe to look for my brain on that beach in Maui.
        Kjersten finally pulls away, and I say×I swear I actually say this: ÓDo you want your gum back, or should I keep itØÔ
        SheÒs a little red in the face, or maybe itÒs green, because I think my brain-burn left me temporarily color-blind.
        ÓSorry,Ô she says, and IÒm thinking itÒs me who should be saying sorry, but IÒm still figuring out what the hell I should do with the gum, and then she says, ÓWell, I just wanted to thank you. ItÒs just what Gunnar needs.Ô ÓThanks for thanking,Ô I say. ÓThank me anytime!Ô And then sheÒs gone faster than Dewey Lopez. As for me, I went off to sit in a math class that I have absolutely no memory of.


***
        My experience with girls is limited, and usually ends in pain. The one exception is Lexie Crawley. The crash site of that relationship eventually grew flowers, instead of poison ivy and fly-traps. In other words, after breaking up, Lexie and I became friends×and itÒs not like the friendship IÒve got with Howie and Ira. See, Howie and Ira, theyÒre more like family. You canÒt get rid of them, so you donÒt even try, and learn to live with them. ItÒs okay having friends like that, because no matter what direction your life takes, youÒll always have the Howies and Iras of the world to raise your self-esteem, because they make you look good by comparison.
        But Lexie was different. First of all, sheÒs got insight instead of sight. Being blind doesnÒt necessarily make a person remarkable, but Lexie has managed to build something wonderful around what others would call a disability. Secondly, LexieÒs got more class than anyone I know, and IÒm not talking snooty IÒm-better-than-you kind of class. I mean real class. I admire her for who she is.
        HereÒs what itÒs like between Lexie and me: she can tell me that IÒm a much better friend than boyfriend, and I can actually take it as a compliment. ThatÒs a big deal, because most girls use that ÓI like you as a friendÔ line as secret code for ÓKeep your paws away from me, you slimeball,Ô but not Lexie. I knew if there was anyone I could ask for advice on what KjerstenÒs kiss really meant, it was her.
        I went to CrawleyÒs restaurant straight from school that day, looking for Lexie. Although Crawley also owned most of Paris, CapisceØ, the original CrawleyÒs is his main restaurant. He and Lexie actually live in it. Sort of. See, itÒs a huge mansion, but only the first floor is restaurant. The two of them live on the second floor, with fifteen dogs: one for each of the seven deadly sins, and seven virtues, plus one Seeing Eye dog that must have identity issues, because itÒs the only yellow Lab in a sea of fourteen Afghan hounds.
        ÓWhat do you wantØÔ Old Man Crawley growled when he answered the door. He always said that to me. Except when he was expecting me. Then heÒd say, ÓYouÒre late!Ô even if I was early. It wasnÒt just me he treated this way, though. The whole world was an enemy waiting to happen. According to my father, CrawleyÒs greatest joy came from watching him squirm. In this I could teach my dad a thing or two, because Crawley never made me squirm. I just laughed at him. It annoyed him, but I think he respected me for it.
        The dogs barked and pawed me with their usual greeting. Crawley pulled Gluttony back by the collar, and sent him off. Since Gluttony was the alpha male of the pack, the other dogs followed.
        ÓIs it that time alreadyØÔ Crawley asked as I stepped in.
        ÓYouÒll never know,Ô I told him with a grin.
        ÓI always know,Ô he said. He was, of course, referring to our monthly kidnapping×the planning of which was usually why I came over to chat with Lexie. Like I said, Crawley had us kidnap him once a month, and force him to do something exhilarating. He even paid me for it. The fact that heÒs rich and we get to use his money to plan our adventure outings allows us some really unique opportunities. Last month was a dolphin encounter at the Brooklyn Aquarium, with a shark thrown in for added excitement.
        ÓWhat are you planning for this monthØÔ he asked.
        ÓSpace shuttle,Ô I told him. ÓWeÒre sending you to blow up a comet before it can destroy the earth. YouÒll be strapped to the tip of the warhead.Ô
        ÓSmart-ass.Ô He poked me with his cane. Although he broke his hip last year, I donÒt think he needed the cane to walk anymore. I believe he kept it as a weapon.
        ÓSo tell me,Ô he asked, Ówhat new things have you botched up at Paris, CapisceØ latelyØÔ
        ÒYou mean besides ThanksgivingØ Sorry, but I have no other screwups to entertain you with.Ô
        He shook his head and scowled at me, annoyed that I had no humiliating food-service moments to share. ÓIncredible,Ô he said. ØYouÒre disappointing even when youÒre not disappointing.Ô Then he went off into the kitchen, where he was quickly surrounded by amber waves of dog.
        Lexie got home ten minutes later and was surprised, but pleased, to find me there. She let Moxie, her Seeing Eye dog, out of his halter, and he came bounding to me, expressing all the emotion that Lexie was too proper to display. She did give me a hug, though.
        ÓIÒm glad you came by,Ô she said. ÓIÒve been thinking about you.Ô
        ÒYou haveØÔ I instantly wondered what she was thinking, and why, and whether I should feel embarrassed, flattered, or awkward.
        ÓThereÒs this new boy at school who sounds like you. I keep hearing him in the lunchroom. ItÒs very distracting.Ô ÓYeah,Ô I said. ÓIf he sounds like me, he must be distracting.Ô
        She laughed at that. ÓItÒs only distracting because I keep expecting it to be you.

        I sat across from her in the living room and got right to business, telling her the reason for my visit. I expected her to be full of wisdom, and maybe give me a road map into the mind of Kjersten Umlaut. Instead she just folded her arms.
        ÓSo let me get this straight,Ô she said. ÓYouÒre telling me youÒve been kissed by a beautiful girl, and you want me to give you advice about it.Ô
        ÓYeah, thatÒs the general idea.Ô
        I could already tell this was going south. IÒm not the most observant guy in the world, but IÒve learned that reading LexieÒs body language is very important. See, lots of people put on fake body language, making you see what they want you to see×but since Lexie doesnÒt think in terms of sight, her body language is always genuine. And right now she was genuinely peeved.
        ÓSo, a girl kissed you. Why does that have to involve meØÔ
        ÓSheÒs not a girl, sheÒs a JUNIOR, and every guy in school would give their left arm to go out with her×but she kissed me.Ô
        Still, LexieÒs all cross-armed and huffy. Even the dogs are looking at her like thereÒs something wrong.
        And then I finally get it.
        ÓAre you jealousØÔ
        ÓOf course not,Ô she says, but her body language says different.
        ÓHow can you be jealousØÔ I ask. ØYouÒre dating that guy who clicks, rightØÔ The guy IÒm talking about is this blind dude with the very rare gift of echolocation. By making clicking noises, he can tell you exactly whatÒs around him. ItÒs kind of like human sonar×heÒs been on the news and everything.
        ÓHis name is Raoul,Ô says Lexie, all insulted.
        ÓYeah, well, if my name was Raoul, IÒd rather be called Øthat guy who clicks.ÒÔ
        The scowl on her face scares away at least four of the dogs. I figure itÒs time to backtrack a little bit, so I give her the whole story×about Gunnar, and his weird incurable illness, and the extra month, figuring if she has the background, she might not be so annoyed by the whole thing. The second I mention the free month, she unfolds her arms.
        ÓYou gave him a month of your lifeØÔ
        ÓYeah, and thatÒs why his sister kissed me×so she says.Ô
        ÓAntsy, that was a really nice gesture!Ô
        ÓYeah, sure, but weÒre not talking about that right now, weÒre talking about the kiss.Ô
        ÓFine, fine×but tell me, what did that boy say when you gave him the monthØÔ
        By now IÒm getting all exasperated myself. ÓHe said Øthank you,Ò what do you think he saidØ Can we get back to the other thing nowØÔ
        But if there was any hope of getting advice on the subject, it flew out the window when Old Man Crawley came traipsing in, having eavesdropped on the whole conversation.
        ÓWhat did he give you in return for signing away a month of your lifeØÔ Crawley asked.
        I sighed. ÓNothing. It was a gift. Kind of a symbolic gesture.Ô
        ÓSymbolismÒs overrated,Ô said Crawley. ÓAnd as a gift, itÒs just plain stupid. ItÒs not even tax-deductible. You should have gotten something in return.Ô
        So out of curiosity I asked, ÓWhat do you think a month of someoneÒs life is worthØÔ
        He looked me over, curling his lip like I was a bad piece of fish at the market. ÓA month of your lifeØÔ he said. ÓAbout a buck ninety-eight,Ô and he left, cackling to himself, profoundly amused at how I had walked right into that one.
        ÓWell,Ô said Lexie, no longer peeved at me. ÓI think a month of your life is worth a lot more than Øa buck ninety-eight.ÒÔ She reached out for my hand, and I moved it right into her path so she didnÒt have to go searching for it. She clasped it, smiling. Then she sighed and reluctantly said, ÓAs for the kiss, my opinion, as your friend, is that it does mean something. ThereÒs no such thing as a Øthank-you kissÒ. At least not in high school.Ô

5. People Sign Their Lives Away for the Dumbest Reasons, but DonÒt Blame Me, I Just Wrote the Contract



        I donÒt think itÒs possible not to be selfish. Of course that doesnÒt mean everyoneÒs gotta be like Old Man Crawley either, but thereÒs a little bit of selfishness in everything. Even when you give something from the bottom of your heart, youÒre always getting something back, arenÒt youØ It could just be the satisfaction of making someone happy×which makes you feel better about yourself, so you can balance out whatever awful thing you did earlier in the day.
        Even Howie, who gets screamed at for always buying the wrong gift for his mother, is getting something out of that; each time he gets smacked for getting flowers his mother is allergic to or something, heÒs left with the warm-fuzzy feeling of knowing some things never change, and his universe is all solid and stable.
        My motivations were getting very muddy when it came to my so-called good deeds for Gunnar, and it was starting to feel more and more like disguised selfishness, because of the Kjersten complication.
        Lexie believed that KjerstenÒs kiss meant something. I put a lot of stock in what she said, not just because I trusted LexieÒs judgment, but because deep down, I was pretty sure it meant something, too. At the very least it was an invitation to make it mean something. Was it wrong to perpetrate good deeds when attention from Kjersten was one of the perksØ
        I, Mary Ellen McCaw, being of sound mind and body, do hereby bequeath one month of my natural life to Gunnar Umlaut, that month being the month of June, which shall be taken from the end of my natural life, and not the middle.
        Mary Ellen McCaw
        Signature
        ANTHONY BONANO
        Signature of Witness
        Thanks to Mary Ellen, the word about Ótime shavingÔ had spread quickly. She bragged to the known world about how she donated a month of her life to poor, poor Gunnar Umlaut, and how the idea was all hers, although I may have contributed a piece of paper.
        As people were not entirely stupid, they saw right through Mary Ellen and realized she was leeching off of my idea×so the next day about half a dozen people came out of the woodwork wanting to donate some of their time. Gunnar was more than happy to accept whatever months came his way, and Kjersten was sufficiently impressed.
        ÓThis is just what Gunnar needs,Ô she said when I showed her Mary EllenÒs contract. ÓI donÒt know how to thank you.Ô
        I could have given her some suggestions.
        There was this one girl×Ashley Morales×who was clearly in love with Gunnar×even more so than most of the female student body. She wanted her month to be special. ÓI want my month to be his last,Ô she told me. ÓCan you make sure that he knows my month is his lastØÔ
        Since no one else had claimed the honor, I was happy to oblige.
        I, Ashley Morales, being of sound mind and body, do hereby bequeath one month of my natural life to Gunnar Umlaut. The month shall not be this coming May or June, which are months already reserved by others. The month shall be taken from the end of my natural life, and not the middle. The month shall be the absolute last additional month of Gunnar UmlautÒs life, beyond which there shall only be afterlife, if applicable.
        Ashley Morales Signature
        Neena Weyler
        Signature of Witness
        Then there was this other guy who had come from confession, and his priest wanted him to say like fourteen thousand Hail Marys for writing obscene graffiti on the Gowanus Expressway. He negotiated it down to one month of community service. I guess the kid figured a month donated to Gunnar was just as good.
        The kid was all worried about it, though, and took it even more seriously than Ashley.
        ÓI donÒt want to give up a month if IÒm gonna croak tomorrow or anything,Ô he told me, Óbecause it means IÒll owe days from last month, and I donÒt need that kind of grief.Ô
        ÓCÒmon, itÒs not like itÒs real or anything,Ô I remind him. ÓItÒs just to make Gunnar feel better.Ô
        ÒYeah,Ô he says, Óbut what if turns out to be real after all×like those chain e-mails you gotta forward to ten people, or you dieØÔ
        ÓThose arenÒt real!Ô I tell him.
        ÓYeah,Ô he says. ÓBut how can you be sure ... ØÔ
        I think about that and get all uncomfortable, because I have been guilty of forwarding those stupid e-mails, too. But I usually just send them to people I donÒt like.
        I sigh. ÓOkay. What if I make your contract void if youÒre scheduled to croak before next monthØ That way you wonÒt owe any days, and you can enter the pearly gates totally free of debt.Ô
        He thought about that some more, finally agreed, and happily went back to his priest, mission accomplished.
        I, Jasper Horace Januski, being of sound mind and body, do hereby bequeath one month of my natural life to Gunnar Umlaut, subject to the stuff listed below:

1. The month shall not be this coming May or June, or the last month of Gunnar UmlautÒs life, which are all already reserved by others.

2. The month shall be taken from the end of my natural life and not the middle.

3. The donated month shall be null and void if my own expiration date is less than
31 days from the date of this contract.
        Jasper Januski
        Signature
        Dewey Lopez
        Signature of Witness
        I have to admit, it felt good to be doing something positive for Gunnar, in spite of the fact that it hadnÒt brought forth a second kiss from Kjersten, regardless of how little salami I ate, or how much mouthwash I used. I think maybe her reluctance came from the picture Dewey Lopez published in the school paper of our first kiss. Luckily it wasnÒt on the front cover, since he also snapped a picture of Principal Sinclair coming out of the bathroom with his fly open and a piece of shirttail hanging out. Definitely front-page material. Still, the page-four article was seen by the whole school, with the unpleasant headline LOVE SKIPS A GRADE.
        I donÒt know how it affected KjerstenÒs social standing, but it sure did elevate mine. Everybody wanted to know about it, but I kept quiet, because I figured Kjersten might respect a guy who didnÒt kiss and tell×even if that guy was one year and seven months younger than her. (Yes, I snuck into the office and checked her school record to find out exactly how much older than me she was.)
        Kjersten never mentioned the article or the picture or, for that matter, the kiss. But she did continue to tell me what an entirely great guy I was, which meant another piece of Trident might only be a few days away.
        ÓItÒs so, so special that youÒre sensitive to GunnarÒs little problem,Ô Kjersten told me when I handed her the month Howie gave me×which was month number seven and counting.
        At the time I had laughed, and wondered how she could call it Óa little problem.Ô IÒm not wondering anymore. And IÒm not laughing either.
        I, Howard Bernard Bogerton, being of somewhat sound mind and body, do hereby bequeath one month of my natural life to Gunnar Umlaut, subject to the stuff listed below:

1. The month shall not be this coming May or June, or the last month of Gunnar UmlautÒs life, which are all already reserved by others.

2. The month shall be taken from the end of my natural life, and not the middle.

3. The donated month shall be null and void if my own expiration date is less than
31 days from the date of this contract.

4. Should Gunnar Umlaut use my month for criminal acts such as shoplifting or serial killing, I shall not be held responsible.
        HOWIE BOGERTON
        Signature
        Ira Goldfarb
        Signature of Witness
        By Friday, I had gotten Gunnar a full year.

6. A Nasty Herd of Elephants That Are Nowhere Near as Embarrassingly Adorable as Me. DonÒt Ask.



        Nobody gets up early on Saturday morning in our house anymore. Friday nightÒs a late night for the restaurant. Mom and Dad are usually up even later than me×and thatÒs saying something. I slunk into the kitchen at around eleven that morning to see Mom, clearly still on her first cup of coffee, trying to comfort an inconsolable Christina.
        ÓBut I donÒt want to put Ichabod to sleep,Ô Christina said through her tears. ÓItÒs inhumane.Ô
        ÓItÒs inhumane to let him suffer.Ô She looked at our cat, who was now lying on the windowsill in the sun. If he was suffering, he wasnÒt showing it. It was actually the rest of us who were suffering, because poor Ichabod was so old he had forgotten the form and function of a litter box, and had begun to improvise, leaving little icha-bits in unlikely places.
        ÓItÒs the way of all things, honey,Ô Mom said sympathetically. ÓYou remember Mr. Moby×and what about your hamstersØÔ
        ÓItÒs not the same!Ô Christina yelled.
        Mr. Moby was ChristinaÒs goldfish. Actually a whole series of goldfish. She named them all Mr. Moby, the same way Sea World named all their star whales ÓShamu.Ô Then she graduated to hamsters, which were cute, cuddly, vicious little things that would devour one another with such regularity youÒd think cannibalism was in their job description. But Christina was right×this was different. A cat was more like family. Besides, in my current state of mind, mortality was kind of a sore spot.
        ÓMom,Ô I said, ÓcouldnÒt we just let nature take its course, and let Ichabod go when heÒs readyØÔ
        ÓIÒll clean up if he misses the litter box,Ô Christina said. ÓPromise.Ô
        ÒYeah,Ô I said. ÓMaybe she can levitate it out the window.Ô
        Christina scowled at me. ÓMaybe you could give Ichabod one of your friendÒs extra months.Ô
        This surprised me×I didnÒt even know she knew about that, but I guess word gets around. Fortunately it flew miles over MomÒs head.
        ÒYou know whatØÔ Mom said. ÓIÒm not gonna worry about this anymore. ItÒs on your head.Ô Then she poured herself a fresh cup of coffee.
        I went over to GunnarÒs house that afternoon, using our Grapes of Wrath project as a cover story, but what I was really hoping for×and dreading at the same time×was seeing Kjersten. It turns out she had left early for a tennis tournament. I was deeply disappointed, and yet profoundly relieved.
        We were halfway through The Grapes of Wrath and had decided that, for our project, we were going to re-create the dust bowl in GunnarÒs backyard, then arrange for our class to come see it. The dust bowl is what they called the Midwest back in the thirties, when Oklahoma, Kansas, and I think maybe Nebraska dried up and blew away×which has nothing to do with Gone with the Wind, although that movie was made during the same basic time period.
        Mrs. Umlaut fretted a lot when we told her about our plan. Fretted: thatÒs a word they used during the dust bowl. (ÓFretted,Ô Óreckon,Ô and Ó/allÔ were very popular in those days.) But since the backyard was mostly crabgrass already going dormant for the winter, she reluctantly agreed to let us kill the whole yard as long as we promised to redo everything in the spring. I couldnÒt help but glance at Gunnar when she said that, because what if he wasnÒt around in the springØ Then again, maybe this was her way of implying to him that he would be.
        I figured the biggest problem with the dust bowl was GunnarÒs unfinished gravestone smack in the middle of the yard. By now Gunnar had finished his first name and begun working on his middle name, Kolbjorn, which he was worried wouldnÒt fit on one line. ÓI may have to start over on a fresh piece of granite,Ô he told me. I just nodded. I decided it was best if I didnÒt involve myself in tombstone-related issues.
        Before we began murdering helpless vegetation, Gunnar took me up to his room to show me what he had done with the twelve months I had gotten for him. He had three-hole-punched them, and put them in a binder labeled Life. He displayed it proudly, like someone else might display a photo album.
        ÓI consulted with Dr. G yesterday,Ô Gunnar said. ÓHe says I might make nine months×maybe more, because my symptoms havenÒt been getting worse.Ô Then he patted his Binder of Life. ÓBut maybe the real reasonÒs right here.Ô
        I let out a nervous chuckle. ÓWhatever it takes, rightØÔ
        I still didnÒt know if he was serious, or just playing along. The kids who donated their months were, for the most part, treating it like a game. I mean, sure, they were hung up on the rules, but it was more like how you argue over a Monopoly board, and whether or not youÒre supposed to get five hundred bucks if you land on ÓFree Parking.Ô The rules say no, but people still insist itÒs the cash-bonus space. In fact, my cousin Al once busted a guyÒs nose over it×which sent him directly to jail, do not pass ÓGo.Ô
        The point is, even when a game gets serious, thereÒs still a line between game-serious and serious-serious. If I was sure which side of that line Gunnar was on, IÒd have felt a whole lot better. Apparently I wasnÒt the only one who felt a little unsettled around Gunnar. Sure, girls flocked to him, but when it came to our literature circles, they divided right along gender lines, with all the girls going for things that sounded romantic, like East of Eden. We had four guys in our group to start with, but they had all migrated to other novels. I suspected their migration was, much like the farmworkers in our book, driven by empty plains of death. In other words, they couldnÒt handle GunnarÒs constant coming attractions about the end of his life.
        ÓIÒll never forget,Ô he said to Devin Gilooly, Óthat you were my first friend when I moved here. Would you like to be a pall-bearerØÔ
        Devin went bug-eyed and vampire-pale. ÓYeah, sure,Ô he said. The next day, he not only switched to a different novel, he switched to a different English class. If it were possible, I think he would have switched to another school altogether.
        ÓDoesnÒt your culture ululate for the deadØÔ Gunnar asked Hakeem Habibi-Jones.
        ÓWhatÒs ØululateÒ ØÔ Hakeem asked, making it clear that any cultural traditions had been lost in hyphenation. Gunnar demonstrated ululation, which was apparently a high-pitched warbling wail that was maybe meant to wake the dead person in question. All it succeeded in doing was chasing Hakeem away.
        After that, it was just Gunnar and me. Even now, as we started pumping out poison in his yard, I was afraid Gunnar would talk about the death of weeds and find a way to relate it to himself, like maybe he was some unwanted plant targeted by the Weedwhacker in the sky.
        He didnÒt talk about himself, though. Instead he talked about me. And his sister.
        I was all set to put a painfully ugly shrub out of its misery when Gunnar said, ÓYou know, Kjersten really likes you.Ô
        I turned to him, and ended up spraying herbicide on his shoes. ÓSorry.Ô
        He took it in stride, just wiping the stuff off with a rag. ÓYou shouldnÒt be surprised,Ô he said. ÓNot with that kiss all over the school paper.Ô
        I shrugged uncomfortably. ÓIt wasnÒt all over the paper. It was on page four. And anyway, it wasnÒt really a kiss×it was just a peck. Or at least I think it was supposed to be.Ô But I couldnÒt help but think about what Lexie had said. ÓHas Kjersten ... said anything about it to youØÔ
        ÓShe doesnÒt have to say anything×I know my sister. She doesnÒt kiss just anybody.

        There it was×confirmation from a sibling! ÓSo, are you saying she Likes me, as in ØLikeÒ with a capital LØÔ
        Gunnar considered this. ÓMore like italics,Ô he said. Which was fine, because the capital L was more than I could handle.
        ÓSo ... are you okay with her liking meØÔ
        Gunnar continued to kill the plants. ÓWhy shouldnÒt I beØ Better you than some other creep, rightØÔ
        I wasnÒt sure whether he was REALLY okay with it, or just pretending to be okay with it. The only similar situation in recent memory had to do with IraÒs ten-year-old sister, who was kissed in the playground by some twelve-year-old last ValentineÒs Day. The second Ira heard about it, he assembled a posse to terrorize the kid, and now she might never be kissed again.
        This situation was different, though. First of all, she kissed me, not the other way around. Secondly, sheÒs GunnarÒs older sister, so itÒs not like heÒs got to be protective, rightØ
        ÓShe likes you because youÒre genuine,Ô Gunnar said. ÓYouÒre the real thing.Ô
        This was news to me. I donÒt even know what ÓthingÔ he meant, so how could I be the real oneØ But if itÒs a thing Kjersten liked, that was fine with me. And as for being Ógenuine,Ô the more I thought about it, the more I realized what a big deal that was. See, thereÒs basically three types of guys at our school: poseurs, droolers, and losers. The poseurs are always pretending to be somebody theyÒre not, until they forget who they actually are and end up being nobody. The droolers have brains that have shriveled to the size of a walnut, which could either be genetic or media-induced. And the losers, well, they eventually find one another in all that muck at the bottom of the gene pool, but trust me, itÒs not pretty.
        Those of us who donÒt fit into those three categories have a harder time in life, because we gotta figure things out for ourselves×which leaves more opportunity for personal advancement, and mental illness×but hey, no pain, no gain.
        So Kjersten liked ÓgenuineÔ guys. The problem with genuine is that itÒs not something you can try to be, because the second you try, youÒre not genuine anymore. Mostly itÒs about being clueless, I think. Being decent, but clueless about your own decency.
        I donÒt know if IÒm genuine, but since IÒm fairly clueless most of the time, I figured I was halfway there.
        ÓSo ... what do you think I should doØÔ I asked, parading my cluelessness like suddenly itÒs a virtue.
        ÒYou should ask her for a date,Ô Gunnar said.
        This time I sprayed the herbicide in my eyes.
        My advice to you: avoid spraying herbicide in your eyes if at all you can help it. Use a face mask, like the bottle says in bright red, but did I listenØ No. The pain temporarily knocked GunnarÒs suggestion to the back of my brain, and the world became a faraway place for a while.
        I spent half an hour in the bathroom washing out my eyes while Gunnar threw me a few famous quotes about the therapeutic nature of pain. By the time my optical agony faded to a dull throbbing behind my eyelids, I felt like I had just woken up from surgery. Then I step out of the bathroom, and whoÒs coming in the front doorØ Kjersten.
        ÓAntsy! Hi!Ô She sounded maybe a little more enthusiastic than she had intended to. I think that was a good thing. Then she looked at me funny. ÓHave you been cryingØÔ
        ÓWhatØ Oh! No, itÒs just the herbicide.Ô
        She looked at me even more funny, so I told her, ÓGunnar and I were killing plants.Ô
        Kjersten apparently had a whole range of looking-at-you-funny expressions. ÓIs this ... a hobby of yoursØÔ
        I took a deep breath, slowed my brain down×if thatÒs even possible×and tried to explain our whole dust-bowl project in such a way that I didnÒt sound either moronic or certifiably insane. It must have worked, because the funny expressions stopped.
        Then Mrs. Umlaut called from the kitchen. ÓAre you staying for dinner, AntsyØÔ
        ÓSure he is,Ô Kjersten said with a grin. ÓHe canÒt drive home with his eyes like that.Ô
        ÓI... uh ... donÒt drive yet.Ô
        She nudged me playfully. ÓI know that. I was just kidding.Ô
        ÓOh. Right.Ô The fact that she was old enough to drive and I wasnÒt was a humiliating fact I had not considered. Until now. As I thought about this, I could tell I was going red in the face, because my ears felt hot. Kjersten looked at me and laughed, then she leaned in close and whispered:
        ÓYouÒre cute when youÒre embarrassed.Ô
        That embarrassed me even more.
        ÓWell,Ô I said, Ósince IÒm mostly embarrassed around you, I must be adorable.Ô
        She laughed, and I realized that I had actually been clever. I never knew there could be such a thing as charming humiliation. Gold star for me!
        Tonight Mrs. Umlaut made fried chicken×which was as un-Scandinavian as hamburgers, but at least tonight there was pickled red cabbage, which I suspected had Norse origins but was less offensive than herring fermented in goatÒs milk, or something like that.
        It was just the four of us at first×once more with a plate left for Mr. Umlaut, like he was the Holy Spirit.
        Sitting at the Umlaut dinner table that night was much more torturous than the first time. See, the first time I was desperately trying not to make an ass of myself, just in case Kjersten might notice. But now that she was certain to notice, it was worse than my third-grade play, where I had to dress in black, climb out of a papier-mache tooth, and be a singing, dancing cavity. I forgot the words to the song, and since Howie had spent half that morning whistling ÓItÒs a Small WorldÔ in my ear, that was the only song left in my brain. So when I jumped out of the papier-mache tooth, rather than standing there in silent stage fright, I started singing all about how itÒs a world of laughter and a world of tears. Eventually, the piano player just gave up and played the song along with me. When I was done, I got applause from the audience, which just made me feel physically ill, so I leaned over, puked into the piano, and ran offstage. After that, the piano never sounded quite right, and I was never asked to sing in a school play again.
        ThatÒs kind of how I felt at dinner with the Umlauts that night×and no matter how attractive Kjersten might have found my embarrassment, it would all be over if the combination of fried chicken, pickled cabbage, and stress made me hurl into the serving bowl.
        ÓI had a consultation with Dr. G today,Ô Gunnar announced just a few minutes into the meal. His mother sighed, and Kjersten looked at me, shaking her head.
        ÓI donÒt want to hear about Dr. G,Ô Mrs. Umlaut said.
        Gunnar took a bite of his chicken. ÓHow do you know itÒs not good newsØÔ
        ÓDr. G never gives good news,Ô she said. It surprised me that she didnÒt want to hear about her sonÒs condition×and that she hadnÒt even accompanied him to the doctor×but then everybody deals with hardship in different ways.
        ÓI may have more time than originally predicted,Ô Gunnar said. ÓBut only with treatment from experts in the field.Ô
        That wasnÒt quite what he had told me, but I could see there were more layers of communication going on here than infomercials on a satellite dish×which, by the way, I am forbidden to watch since the time I ordered the Ninja-matic food processor. But I suspected that whatever treatments Gunnar was talking about were going to cost more than twelve easy payments of $19.99. Maybe that was it×maybe the cost of medical treatment was the elephant in the room here×although IÒm sure that wasnÒt the only one; the Umlauts seemed to breed elephants like my sister breeds hamsters.
        Then, as if that wasnÒt enough, an entire new herd arrived. Mr. Umlaut came home.


***
        I always hear people talk about Ódysfunctional families.Ô It annoys me, because it makes you think that somewhere thereÒs this magical family where everyone gets along, and no one ever screams things they donÒt mean, and thereÒs never a time when sharp objects should be hidden. Well, IÒm sorry, but that family doesnÒt exist. And if you find some neighbors that seem to be the grinning model of Ófunction,Ô trust me×thatÒs the family that will get arrested for smuggling arms in their SUV between soccer games.
        The best you can really hope for is a family where everyoneÒs problems, big and small, work together. Kind of like an orchestra where every instrument is out of tune, in exactly the same way, so you donÒt really notice. But when it came to the Umlaut orchestra, nothing meshed×and the moment Mr. Umlaut walked through the front door everything in that house clashed like cymbals.
        It started with the dinner conversation. From the moment I heard the key turning in the lock, all conversation stopped. I glanced at Gunnar, who stared into his food. I turned my eyes to Kjersten, who turned her eyes to the clock. And when I looked to Mrs. Umlaut, she didnÒt seem to be looking at anything at all.
        Mr. Umlaut came into the kitchen without a word, noticed there was a guest at the table, but didnÒt comment on it. He took out a glass and dispensed himself some water from the refrigerator door.
        ÒYouÒre home,Ô Mrs. Umlaut finally said, bizarrely stating the obvious.
        He took a gulp of his water, and looked at the table. ÓChickenØÔ
        Without standing up, Mrs. Umlaut reached over and pulled out his chair. He sat down.
        I took a moment to size the man up. He was tall, with thinning blond hair, small glasses, and a wide jaw that Gunnar was starting to develop. There was a weariness about him that had nothing to do with sleep, and he had a poker face that was completely unreadable, just like Gunnar. To me that was the most uncomfortable thing of all. See, I come from a family where we wear our hearts on our sleeves. If youÒre feeling something, chances are someone else knows about it even before you do. But this manÒs heart was somewhere in a safe behind the family portrait.
        ÓI donÒt believe weÒve met,Ô he said to me.
        His cool gray eyes made me feel like I was on a game show and didnÒt know the answer.
        ÓAntsy, this is my dad,Ô Gunnar said.
        ÓPleased to meet you,Ô I said, then silence fell again as everyone ate.
        I donÒt do well with silence, so I usually take it upon myself to end it. My brother says IÒm like the oxygen mask that drops when a plane loses air pressure. ÓPeople stop talking and Antsy falls from the ceiling to fill the room with hot air until normality returns.Ô
        But what if normality is never going to return, and you know itØ
        I opened my mouth, and words began to spill out like I was channeling the village idiot. ÓWorking todayØ Yeah, my dad works on Saturdays, too. We got a restaurant, so heÒs always working when people are eating, and people are always eating×of course thatÒs different from being a lawyer, though×isnÒt that what Gunnar said you doØ Wow, it must have been hard work becoming a lawyer×a lot of school, just like becoming a doctor, rightØ Except, of course, you donÒt gotta practice on dead bodies.Ô
        I was feeling light-headed, and then realized I had said all that without breathing. I figured maybe I should have put my own oxygen mask on first before helping others, like youÒre supposed to.
        Gunnar didnÒt say anything×he just stared at me like you might stare at a car wreck you pass on the side of the road. It was Kjersten who spoke.
        ÓHe wasnÒt at work,Ô she said, almost under her breath.
        ÓMore chickenØÔ Mrs. Umlaut asked me.
        ÓYes, please, thank you.Ô But even as I tried to plug up my mouth up with food, I couldnÒt stop myself from talking. ÓMy dad had one of his recipes stolen by a restaurant down the block and he says he should sue×maybe you can be his lawyer, or at least tell him if it makes sense to sue, because I hear it costs more money than itÒs worth, and then there are like fourteen thousand appeals and no one ever sees a penny×of course I could be wrong, youÒd know better than me, rightØÔ
        He seemed neither amused nor irritated. I would have felt much more comfortable if he were one or the other. ÓIÒm not that kind of lawyer,Ô he said flatly, between bites of food. Gunnar continued his car-wreck gaze, although I think by now it was a multicar pileup.
        ÓSomething to drink, AntsyØÔ Mrs. Umlaut asked.
        ÓYes, please, thank you.Ô She poured me a tall glass of milk, and I quickly began to drink×not because I wanted it, but because I knew that unless I was a ventriloquist and could make words come out of somebody elseÒs mouth, drinking would shut me up for a good twenty seconds, and maybe the urge to blather would go away like hiccups.
        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. Umlaut. 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, ÓThe dust bowl awaits.Ô
        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 Umlaut 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 wouldnÒt bring it up, I couldnÒt leave without asking Gunnar the big question.
        ÓSo whatÒs the deal with your dadØÔ
        Gunnar laughed at that. ÓThe deal,Ô he said. ÓThatÒs funny.Ô And thatÒs all he said. He didnÒt tell me that it was none of my business, he didnÒt 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. ÓSays here that the plants will all be dead in five days, and then it should be easy to pull them out.Ô
        ÓWe could sign over two extra days of life to the plants if you want to wait until next weekend,Ô I said, and laughed at my own joke.
        ÓThatÒs not funny.Ô
        ÓSony.Ô
        To be honest, I had no clue what I was and wasnÒt allowed to laugh at anymore.
        The moment was far too uncomfortable, so I tried to salvage it. ÓHey, by the way, I think there are still a few people at school willing to donate months, if you still want them.Ô ÓWhy wouldnÒt I want themØÔ he asked. ÓAs Nathaniel Hawthorne said, ØScrounging for precious moments is the most primary human endeavor.ÒÔ
        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.
        ÓDoes it ever... scare youØÔ I dared to ask him.
        He took a while before he answered. ÓA lot of things scare me,Ô he said. Then he looked at his unfinished gravestone in the middle of the dying yard. ÓNo doubt about it×IÒm going to have to start over.Ô


***
        Before I left, I stopped by KjerstenÒs 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 thereÒs this instinct weÒre born with that says you donÒt walk into a girlÒs room uninvited, and even when youÒre invited, you donÒt walk in too far unless, of course, youÒre related to each other, or her parents arenÒt home.
        ÓHi,Ô I said. ÓWhatcha doinÒØÔ
        ÓChemistry,Ô she said.
        ÓAre you studying whether we got chemistryØÔ
        She laughed. I have to say, this whole youÒre-attractive-when-youÒre-embarrassed thing was great. It was like a free license to say all the things IÒd 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 fames 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 wouldnÒt be much for conversation, because the phrase My God, IÒm sitting on KjerstenÒs bed would keep repeating over and over in my mind like one of ChristinaÒs 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.
        ÓNice room,Ô 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 wasnÒt that great of an artist.
        ÓI like your mural,Ô I said.
        She grinned slightly. ÓNo you donÒt, but thanks for saying so.Ô Like I said, people can pick up my emotions like a pod-cast. ÓI like painting, but itÒs not what IÒm good at,Ô she told me. ÓThatÒs okay, though, because if I was good, then IÒd always worry if I was good enough. This way I can enjoy doing it, and I never have to care about being judged.Ô
        ÓIn that case,Ô I said, ÓI really DO like your mural. I wish I had the guts to do things I stink at.Ô
        She took a measured look at me. ÓLike whatØÔ 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, ÓIÒm not very good speaking in front of an audience.Ô
        ÓIt just takes practice. I could teach you.Ô
        ÓSure, why notØÔ 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. ÓI promise to give speeches even worse than you paint,Ô I told her.
        She laughed, I laughed, and then the moment became awkward.
        ÓSo...Ô I said.
        ÓSo ...Ô 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 wasnÒt 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.
        ÓSo I was wondering if maybe youÒd like go out sometime,Ô I heard myself say. ÓA movie, or dinner, or trip to Paris, that kinda thing.Ô
        ÓParis sounds nice,Ô Kjersten said. ÓWill we fly first classØÔ ÓNo way!Ô I told her. ÓItÒs by private jet, or nothing.Ô 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.
        ÓA movie would be nice,Ô she said.
        ÓGreat... uh ... yeah . .. uh ... right.Ô 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. ÓA movieÒs a good choice,Ô I told her. ÓItÒs dark, so people you know wonÒt see us together.Ô
        ÓWhy would that matterØÔ
        ÓWell, you know×you being older and all.Ô
        ÓAntsy,Ô she said, in a lecturing tone that really made her sound older, Óthat doesnÒt matter to me.Ô
        ÓWell, good,Ô I said, enjoying the prospect of walking into the multiplex with Kjersten. ÓAnd anyway, a movie-theater date will give me lots of great opportunities to be embarrassed.Ô
        ÓI certainly hope so,Ô 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.
        ÓIÒm sorry about my father,Ô she said.
        I shrugged, playing dumb. ÓHe didnÒt do anything.Ô
        ÓHe came home,Ô she said. ÓThese days, thatÒs enough.Ô
        Even though I was curious, I didnÒt want to ask what she meant, just in case she didnÒt want to tell. I looked at the mural, giving her time to gather her thoughts. Then she said, ÓHe was a partner in a law firm, but a few months ago the firm fell apart. He hasnÒt worked since.Ô
        ÓBut heÒs gone all the time×what does he do all day, look for workØÔ
        And Kjersten said, ÓWe donÒt know.Ô

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 Umlaut was one step removed from reality; the way they dealt with GunnarÒs 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 fatherÒs arrival at home later that same night didnÒt raise the homeland security index, as it did in the Umlaut household. That was mainly because everyone but me was already in bed.
        ÓHi, Antsy,Ô he said as he shuffled into the kitchen. ÓYouÒre up late.Ô
        ÓJust came down for a drink,Ô I told him, even though IÒd 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 wasnÒt hungry. I thought it was strange how he can be at a restaurant all night, then come home and have to eat leftovers.
        ÓI heard your friend is real sick,Ô he said. ÓIÒm sorry.Ô
        That surprised me. ÓI didnÒt know you knew about it.Ô
        ÒYour sister keeps me informed on things.Ô
        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 KOÒd 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 GunnarÒs 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 wasnÒt working, he did stuff. Now, instead of a job and a paycheck, he had a business and a ÓcallingÔ×as if feeding Brooklyn was a holy mission.
        As I went to bed that night, I thought about Mr. Umlaut, 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.
        ÓI want to make sure youÒre free on Saturday the nineteenth,Ô she said.
        ÓLet me check with my social secretary.Ô I glanced over at some fat guy sitting next to me on the bus. ÓYeah, IÒm free.Ô 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, ÓMy parents are flying me to the Seychelles, to spend the holidays with them,Ô and she added Óagain,Ô as if it would make me feel better to know she was legitimately embarrassed by her lap of luxury. ÓThey havenÒt bothered to visit since the summer, so I have to go×but before I do, IÒve planned a special adventure for Grandpa.Ô
        The phone signal kept going in and out×all I heard was something about a team of engineers and lots of steel cable.
        ÓSounds like fun,Ô I told her. Sure, I could do it. ItÒs not like ÓvacationÔ was in my familyÒs vocabulary since the restaurant opened. Then she got to the real reason for her call.
        ÓOh, and by the way, IÒm having dinner at the restaurant with Raoul, and youÒre invited.Ô
        By Óthe restaurant,Ô I knew she meant CrawleyÒs, her grandfatherÒs first restaurant. By ÓyouÒre invited,Ô she could have meant a whole lot of things.
        ÓJust meØÔ I asked.
        ÓNo. You... and a date ... if you like.Ô
        Now I knew what ÓyouÒre invitedÔ actually meant. ÓWow×an invitation to a five-star restaurant for me and a date. WouldnÒt it be easier to put one of those electronic tags on my ear before you release me into the wildØÔ
        She huffed into the phone.
        ÓAdmit it×you just want to keep track of me.Ô
        She didnÒt deny it, she just continued the hard sell. ÓDonÒt you think whatserface will be impressed if you take her out for a fancy lobster dinner on your first dateØÔ
        ÓHow do you know itÒs our first dateØÔ
        ÓIs itØÔ
        ÓMaybe it is, maybe it isnÒt.Ô
        She huffed again. I was really enjoying this.
        ÓCÒmon,Ô she said, Óare you going to turn down a free meal at one of BrooklynÒs most expensive restaurantsØÔ ÓOoh! Manipulating me with money,Ô I teased. ÓYouÒre sounding more and more like your grandfather every day.Ô ÓOh, shut up!Ô
        ÓAdmit it×youÒre curious to know what kind of girl would kiss me in a school hallway.Ô
        At last she caved. ÓWell, do you blame meØ And besides, I really want you to meet Raoul. ItÒs important to me.Ô ÓWhyØ ItÒs not like you need my approval to be dating him.Ô
        ÓWell,Ô she said after a momentÒs thought, ÓIÒll give you mine, if you give me yours.Ô


***
        Lexie was right about me not being able to turn down the invitation. She had pushed my buttons, and we both knew it. It wasnÒt 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 principalÒs office for crimes unknown. People saw the yellow slip and reflexively leaned away.
        This was my first experience in a high school principalÒs office. I donÒt know what I was expecting that would be different from middle school. Fancier chairsØ A minibarØ I wasnÒt 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 couldnÒt sell it. It was his hair that undermined him every step of the way. Everyone called it ÓThe Magic Comb-over.Ô 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. ThereÒs only one reason a guy has his tie flipped over his shoulder. If you havenÒt figured it out, you donÒt deserve to be told.
        So IÒm 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 heÒd take it out on me, so this was a lose-lose situation. What made it worse is that I couldnÒt stop smirking about it.
        He poured himself a glass of sparkling water, offering me some, but I just shook my head.
        ÓMr. Bonano,Ô he said in his serious administrative voice, Ódo you know why IÒve called you inØÔ
        I couldnÒt 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 IÒd become sympathetic.
        ÓI said, do you know why I called you inØÔ
        I nodded.
        ÓGood. Now letÒs talk about this situation with Gunnar Umlaut.Ô
        ÓYour tieÒs over your shoulder,Ô I said.
        There was a brief moment where I could tell he was thinking, Should I just leave it there, and insist itÒs there for a reasonØ 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, ÓI never liked this tie anyway,Ô so he takes it off, and drops it in the trash.
        ThatÒs 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 youÒre done.
        ÓHahahahahahahahalÒmsorry,Ô I squealed. ÓHahahahahahaha canÒthelpithahahahahaha.Ô
        ÓIÒll wait,Ô said the man who had the power to expel me.
        I tried to stop by tensing all my muscles, but that didnÒt work. Finally I made myself imagine the look on my motherÒs 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.
        ÓAre you doneØÔ
        I took a deep breath. ÓYes, I think so.Ô
        He waited until the last of my convulsions faded, pouring the glass of sparkling water into a bonsai at the edge of his desk. ÓWhatÒs life if we canÒt laugh at ourselvesØÔ he said. Oddly, I found myself respecting him all of a sudden, for the way he kept his cool.
        ÓHow many hoursØÔ I asked, not wanting to draw this out any longer than necessary.
        ÓIÒm not sure I understand the questionØÔ
        ÓI got detention, rightØ Because of the stuff with Gunnar. I just want to know how many hoursØ Does it include Saturday schoolØ Do my parents have to know, or can we keep this between you and meØÔ
        ÓI donÒt think you understand, Anthony.Ô And then he smiled. ItÒs not a good thing when principals smile.
        ÓSo . . . IÒm suspendedØ CÒmon, itÒs not like I hurt anybody×itÒs only pieces of paper×I was trying to make the guy feel better about dying and all. How many daysØ

        ÒYouÒre not in trouble,Ô said Principal Sinclair. ÓI called you in because I wanted to donate a month of my own.Ô
        I just stared at him. Now it was his turn to laugh at me, but he didnÒt bust up laughing like I did, he just chuckled. ÓActually,Ô he said, ÓIÒm impressed by what youÒve started. It shows a level of compassion I rarely see around here.Ô
        ÓSo ... you want me to write you up a contractØÔ
        ÓFor me, and for the secretaries in the front office×and for Mr. Bale.Ô
        ÓThe security guard wants to give a month, tooØÔ
        YouÒve started a schoolwide phenomenon, Anthony. That poor boy is lucky to have a friend like you.Ô
        He gave me a list of names to write contracts up for, and I was a little too shell-shocked to say much more. Then, just before I left, I looked into the trash can. ÓKeep that tie,Ô I told him. ÓThrow away the yellow paisley one. ThatÒs the one everyone makes fun of.Ô
        He looked at me like I had just given him an early Christmas gift. ÓThank you, Anthony! Thank you for letting me know.Ô
        I left with a list of five names, and the strange, unearthly feeling that comes from knowing your principal doesnÒt hate your guts.
        Following up on his schoolwide-phenomenon speech to me, Principal Sinclair insisted that I go on Morning Announcements, to make the whole donated-month thing legitimate school business.
        Morning Announcements are kind of a joke at our school. I mean, we got all this video equipment, right, but no one knows how to use it. ThereÒs an anchor girl who reads cue cards like sheÒs still stuck in the second level of Hooked on Phonics. And letÒs not forget the kid who has the nervous habit of adjusting himself on-air whenever heÒs nervous×which is whenever heÒs on-air. Occasionally Ira would submit a funny video, but lately there hasnÒt been much worth watching.
        ÓJust read your lines off the cue cards,Ô the video techie told me, but like I said, public speaking ranks right up there with being eaten alive by ants on my list of unpleasant activities.
        After doing my own morning announcement, I now know firsthand why those other kids look like idiots on TV, and I have new respect for Crotch Boy and Phonics Girl.


***
        ÓHello, IÒm Anthony Bonano with news for you. As many of you know, our friend Gunnar Umlaut has been diagnosed with PMS, which is a rare life-threatening disease, pause, so IÒm asking you, point at camera, to open up your hearts and donate a month of your life as a symbolic gesture, to show Gunnar that we really care. And in return, youÒll get a T-shirt that says ØGunnarÒs Time Warriors.Ò ReallyØ ThereÒs a T-shirtØ Cool! Our goal is to collect as much time as possible. Remember, ØDonÒt be a dunth. Donate a month.Ò Now excuse me while I go beat the crap out of whoever wrote that. Did I just say crap on live TVØÔ


***
        Crotch Boy, Phonics Girl, and now the Blithering Wonder.


***
        It began even before I went to my next class. I was grabbed in the hallway by people who didnÒt seem to care how moronic I looked on TV. They all wanted to make time donations. Everyone had their own reason for it. One guy did it to impress his girlfriend. One girl hoped it would get her into the popular crowd. Although I didnÒt want to spend all my free time at my computer printing out time contracts, I couldnÒt just walk away from what I had started, could IØ Besides×there was a kind of power to being the go-to guy. The Master of Time. I even felt like I should start dressing for the part, you knowØ Like wearing a shirt and tie, the way the basketball team does on the day of a big game. So I found this tie covered with weird melting clocks designed by some dead artist named Dolly. Okay, I admit it, this was really starting to go to my head×like when Wendell Tiggor said he wanted to donate some time.
        ÓYou canÒt,Ô I told him, Óon account of Gunnar needs life, not wastes-of-life.Ô
        The thing is, TiggorÒs famous for having really lame comeback lines, like, ÓOh yeahØ If IÒm a waste of life, then youÒre a stupid stupidhead.Ô (Sometimes the person he was insulting would have to feed him a decent comeback line out of pity.

        This time, however, Tiggor didnÒt even try. He just pouted and slumped away. WhyØ Because the Master of Time had spoken, and he was deemed unworthy.
        What happened next, well, I guess I could blame it on Skaterdud, but itÒs not his fault×not really. I blame it on Restless Recipe syndrome. ThatÒs something my father once taught me.
        It was a month or so before the restaurant first opened, and he was trying to figure out what the official menu would be. It was the first time in his life heÒd been forced to write down recipes he had always just kept in his head.
        He and Mom were in the kitchen together, cooking one meal after another, which we were giving away to neighbors, because not even Frankie could eat an entire menu. Mom had taken courses in French cooking last year, after finally admitting that Dad was the better Italian chef. It was her way of staking out new taste-bud territory. They had created these fusion Frenchltalian dishes, but that particular night as they cooked, Dad kept having to stop Mom from adding new ingredients.
        ÓYou know what your motherÒs problem isØÔ he said to me as they cooked. He knew better than to ever criticize Mom directly. It always had to be bounced off a third person, the way live TV from China has to bounce off a satellite. ÓShe suffers from ØRestless Recipe syndrome.ÒÔ
        MomÒs response was to throw me a sarcastic ÓOh, pleaseÔ gaze, that I would theoretically relay back to my father at our stove somewhere in Beijing.
        ÓItÒs true! No matter what recipe sheÒs cooking, she canÒt leave it alone×she has to change it.Ô
        ÓListen to him! As if he doesnÒt do the exact same thing!Ô
        ÓYes×but at a certain point I stop. I let the recipe be. But your mother will get a recipe absolutely perfect×and then the next time she cooks it, sheÒs gotta add something new. Like the time she put whiskey in the marinara sauce.Ô
        It made me laugh when he mentioned it. Mom had added so much whiskey, we all got drunk. ItÒs a cherished family memory that IÒll one day share with my children, and/or therapist.
        Finally she turned to talk to him directly. ÓSo×I didnÒt cook out the alcohol enough×big deal. IÒll have you know I saw that on the Food Channel.Ô
        ÓSo go marry the Food Channel.Ô
        ÓMaybe I will.Ô
        They looked at each other, pretending to be annoyed, then Dad reached around and squeezed her left butt cheek, she grinned and grabbed his, then the whole thing became so full of inappropriate parental affection, I had to leave the room.
        IÒm like my father in lots of ways, I guess, but in this respect IÒm like my mother. Even when the recipeÒs working perfectly, I can never leave well enough alone.


***
        With about a dozen time contracts to fill out×each one a little bit different×I tried to hurry home from school that day, hoping to avoid anyone else who wanted to shave some time off their miserable existence. ThatÒs when I ran into Skaterdud. At first he rolled past me on his board like it was just coincidence, but a second later he looped back around. He flustered me with his eight-part handshake before he started talking.
        ÓCultural Geography, man,Ô he said, shaking his head×it was a class we were both in together. ÓI just donÒt get it. I mean×is it cultureØ Is it geographyØ You know where IÒm going, rightØÔ
        ÓThe skate parkØÔ I answered. Sure, it was closed for the winter, but that never stopped Skaterdud before.
        ÓIÒm talking conceptually,Ô he said. ÓGotta follow close or youÒre not never gettinÒ nowhere.Ô
        IÒve learned that silence is the best response when you have no idea what someone is talking about. Silence, and a knowing nod.
        ÓIÒm thinking maybe one favor begets another, comprendeØÔ
        I nodded again, hoping he hadnÒt suddenly become bilingual. It was hard enough to understand him in one language.
        ÓSo youÒll do itØÔ he asked.
        ÓDo whatØÔ I had to finally ask.
        He looked at me like I was an imbecile. ÓWrite my Cultural Geography paper for me.

        ÓWhy would I do thatØÔ
        ÓBecause,Ô he said, ÓIÒm gonna give up six whole months of my life to your boy Gunnar.Ô
        That got my interest. No one had offered that much. The Master of Time was intrigued.
        Skaterdud laughed at the expression on my face. ÓAinÒt no biggie,Ô he said. ÓItÒs not like itÒs never gonna matter×Òcause donÒt I already know when IÒm gonna be pushinÒ up posiesØ Or seaweed, in my caseØ That date with destiny ainÒt never gonna change, because the fortune-tellerÒs prediction would have already taken into account whatever life IÒd give away to Gunnar. Smart, rightØ Yeah, I got this wired!Ô
        I was actually following his logic, and it scared me. ÓSo . .. why just six monthsØÔ I said, playing along. ÓIf your futureÒs all set in stone no matter what you do, why not give a yearØÔ
        ÓDone,Ô said Skaterdud, slapping me on the back. ÓDonÒt forget×that Cultural Geography paperÒs due Friday.Ô
        ÓWhoa! Wait a second! I didnÒt say it was a deal.Ô I was getting all mad now, because I felt like I was a sucker at a carnival, and had gotten tricked into this×so I said the first thing that came to mind, which, sadly, was: ÓWhatÒs in it for meØÔ
        Skaterdud shrugged. ÓWhat do you wantØÔ
        I thought about how stockbrokers get commissions when they make a deal, so I thought, Why not meØ ÓOne extra month commission for me. Yeah, thatÒs it. An extra month to do with as I please.Ô
        ÓDone,Ô he said again. ÓLet me read the paper before you turn it in so I know what I wrote.Ô
        I, Reginald Michaelangelo Smoot, aka Skaterdud, in addition to the twelve months donated to Gunnar Umlaut in the attached contract, do hereby bequeath one month to Anthony Paul Bonano for his own personal use in any way he sees fit, including, but not limited to: a. ) Extending his own natural life. b. ) Extending the life of a family member or beloved pet. c.) Anything else, really.
        RM. Smoot
        Signature
        Ralphy Sherman
        Signature of Witness

8. Who Needs Cash When YouÒve Got Time Coming Out of Your EarsØ



        I have never been in the habit of cheating at school. I mean, sure, the occasional glance at my neighborÒs paper on a multiple-choice test or a list of dates written on my forearm, but nothing like what Skaterdud wanted me to do. Now not only did I have to write two passing papers, but I had to make one of them sound like he wrote it×which meant sounding all confusing but making enough sense to get a passing grade.
        The DudÒs paper got a B with an exclamation point from the teacher, and since I used all the good stuff in his paper, I got a C-minus on mine. Serves me right. The Dud gave me my month commission the morning we got our grades back, slapped me on the back when he saw my grade, and said, ÓYouÒll do better next time.Ô
        That day I went off campus to get pizza for lunch, because the lunch ladies were secretly spreading the word that this was a good day to do a religious fast.
        Problem was, I didnÒt have any money. Rishi, who ran the pizza place down the street, was Indian. Not Native American, but Indian Indian×like from India×and, as such, made pizza that was nothing like the Founding Fathers ever envisioned. Not that it was bad×actually each type he made was amazing, which is maybe why the place was always crowded, and he could keep raising his prices.
        I stood there, drooling over a Tandoori Chicken and Pepperoni that had just come out of the oven, and began rummaging through my backpack for spare change×but all I came up with were two nickels, and a Chuck E. Cheese game token that came out as change from one of those high-tech vending machines that was either defective or knew exactly what it was doing.
        Rishi looked at me, and just shook his head. Meanwhile the people in line behind me were getting impatient. ÓCÒmon,Ô said Wailing Woody, his beefy arm around his girlfriendÒs shoulder. ÓEither order or get out of the way.Ô
        What I did next was probably the result of low blood sugar. I opened my binder to see if maybe some coins got stuck under the clasp, and saw the page I had gotten from Skaterdud. My commission. I pulled it out, looked once more at the pizza, and desperately held it up to Rishi.
        ÓI donÒt have cash, but what about thisØÔ I said. ÓOne month of some guyÒs life.Ô
        A couple of people in line snorted, but not everyone. After all, I had been on Morning Announcements. I was legit. People actually got quieter, waiting to see what Rishi would do. He took it from me, laughed once, laughed twice, and I figured my religious fast was about to begin ... until he said, ÓWhat kind of pizza would you likeØÔ
        I was still staring at him, waiting for the punch line, when Woody nudged me and said, ÓOrder already!Ô
        ÓUh ... how many slices is it worthØÔ
        ÓTwo,Ô Rishi said, without hesitation, like it was written on the menu.
        I ordered my two slices of Tandoori Chicken-and-Pepperoni, and as he served them he said to me, ÓI shall frame this and hang it on the wall, there.Ô He pointed to a wall that held a bunch of photos of minor celebrities like the Channel Five weatherman, and Cher. ÓIt will be the cause of much conversation! Next!Ô
        At this point, IÒm just figuring IÒm lucky×that this is a freak thing. But like I said, other people saw this×people who hadnÒt eaten, and maybe their brains were working like that high-tech vending machine, which, when I got back to school, gave me a can of Coke for a Chuck E. Cheese token, thinking it was a Sacagawea dollar coin.
        The second I popped that soda open, Howie appeared out of nowhere, in a very Schwa-like way, complaining of the kind of thirst that ended empires. ÓPlease, Antsy, just one sip. I swear on my motherÒs life I wonÒt backwash.Ô
        I took a long, slow guzzle from the can, considering it. Then I said, ÓWhatÒs it worth to youØÔ
        I walked away with two weeks of his life.


***
        ThereÒs this thing called Ósupply and demand.Ô You can learn about this in economics class, or in certain computer games that simulate civilizations. You also can blow up those civilizations with nuclear weapons×which is only fun the first couple of times, and then itÒs like enough already×why spend three hours building a civilization if youÒre just gonna blow it upØ ThatÒs three hours of your life youÒre never gonna get back×and ever since time shaving became a part of my daily activities, IÒve become very aware of wasted time×whether it be time wasted on the couch watching reruns, or time spent destroying simulated nations. When I first got that game, by the way, it cost fifty bucks, but now you can get it in the sale bin for $9.99. ThatÒs supply and demand. When everybody wants something and thereÒs not enough to go around, it costs more. But if nobody wants it, it costs next to nothing. In the end, itÒs people who really decide how much something is worth.
        As the undisputed Master of Time, I was the one in complete control of the time-shaving industry. That meant I controlled the supply, and now that I knew I could trade time for other stuff, I began to wonder how big the demand could be.
        Turns out I didnÒt have to wait long to find out. The next morning, Wailing Woody Wilson came to me with his girlfriend to settle a dispute.
        ÓI forgot we had a date last night, and Tanya was all mad at me.Ô
        ÓIÒm still mad at you,Ô Tanya reminded him. She crossed her arms impatiently and chewed gum in my general direction.
        ÒYeah,Ô said Woody. ÓSo I said IÒd give her a month of my life.Ô Then he looked at me pleadingly, like I had the power to make it all better.
        Well, maybe IÒm psychic, or maybe IÒm smart, or maybe my stupidity quotient was equal to theirs, because I had anticipated just this sort of thing. In fact, the night before, I had printed out a dozen blank contracts×all they needed to do was fill in the names. I reached into my backpack and pulled a contract out of my binder . . . along with a certificate that would give me my own bonus week as payment for the transaction.
        ÓOh, and while weÒre at it,Ô said Woody, ÓIÒll throw in a month for Gunnar, too.Ô
        Tanya stenciled hearts all over her certificate, had it laminated, and posted it on the student bulletin board for the whole world to see. From that moment on, any guy who was not willing to give a month of his life to his girlfriend didnÒt have a girlfriend for long. I was swamped with requests. And on top of romantic commerce, there were other kids who came to me with same-as-cash transactions.
        ÓMy brother says heÒll give me the bigger bedroom for a month of my life.Ô
        ÓI broke a neighborÒs window, and I canÒt afford to pay for it.Ô
        ÓCould this be used as a Bar Mitzvah giftØÔ
        Between all this new business, and the months that were still pouring in for Gunnar, I was collecting commissions left and right. In a few days I had thirty weeks of my own×which I was able to trade for everything from a bag of chips to a ride home on the back of a seniorÒs motorcycle. I even got a used iPod; trading value: three weeks.
        I could not deny the fact that I was getting amazing mileage out of GunnarÒs imminent death. I felt guilty about it, since I never got permission from Gunnar to shamelessly use his terminality but as it turns out, Gunnar was actually pleased about it. ÓÒMisery loves company, but it loves power to a greater degree, Ô he said, quoting Ayn Rand. ÓIf my misery has the power to change your life, IÒm happy.Ô
        Which I guess was okay×if he could be happily miserable, it was better than being miserably miserable×and Gunnar was definitely the most ÓupÔ down person I knew.
        Even so, I couldnÒt tell him about the daydreams. Some things are best kept to oneself. See, you canÒt help the things you daydream about×and theyÒre not always nice. In fact, sometimes theyÒre more nightmares than dreams. Daymares, IÒd guess youÒd call them. Like the times you get all caught up imagining irritating arguments you never had but might have someday×or the daymares where you put yourself through worst-case scenarios. The sinkhole daymare, for example. See, a while back there was this news report about a sinkhole that opened up beneath a house in Bolivia or Bulgaria, or something. One morning in this quiet neighborhood, thereÒs all this moaning and groaning in the walls, and then the ground opens up, a house plunges a hundred feet into the earth, and everyone inside is swept away in an underground river that nobody knew about except for some braniac in a nearby university whoÒs been writing papers about it for thirty years, but does anybody read themØ No.
        So you get a daymare about this sinkhole, and what if it happened right beneath your house. Imagine that. You wake up one morning, hit the shower, and as youÒre drying off, suddenly the ground swallows your entire house, and there you are wrapped in a towel, trying to figure out which is more important at the moment×keeping the towel on, or keeping from being washed away in the underground riverØ
        In these daymares you always survive×although occasionally youÒre the only one, and it ends with you telling the news reporters how you tried so desperately to save your family, if only they could have held on and been strong like you.
        My current recurring daymare involved me at GunnarÒs funeral. IÒm there and itÒs raining, because itÒs always raining at funerals, and all the umbrellas are always black. Why is thatØ What happens to all those bright flowery umbrellas, or the Winnie-the-Pooh onesØ So anyway, there I am holding a depressingly black umbrella with one hand, and my other hand is holding Kjersten, comforting her in her grief. IÒm strong for her, and that makes us even closer×and yeah, IÒm all broken up, but I donÒt show it except for maybe a single tear down one cheek. Then someone asks me to say something. I step forward, and unlike in real life, I say the perfect thing that makes everyone smile and nod in spite of their tears, and makes Kjersten respect me even more. And then I snap myself out of it, seriously disgusted that in my head, GunnarÒs funeral is all about me.


***
        In a couple of days I had gone through my entire paper supply printing out time-contract forms, and donations were still pouring in. The student council, refusing to be outdone by a lowly commoner like me, put up a big cardboard thermometer outside the main office. I was instructed to notify them daily how much time had been collected for Gunnar so they could mark it off on the thermometer. The goal they set was fifty years, because fifty additional years would make Gunnar sixty-five, and they felt that giving him time beyond retirement age would just be silly.
        ÓItÒs amazing how generous people can be when youÒre dying,Ô Gunnar said when I handed him the next stack of months.
        ÓSo whatÒs the word from Doctor GØÔ I asked him. ÓAny good newsØÔ
        ÓDr. G is noncommittal,Ô Gunnar told me. ÓHe says IÒll be fine, until IÒm not.Ô
        ÓThatÒs helpful.Ô I wondered which was worse, having a disease with few symptoms, or one with enough symptoms to let you know where you stood. ÓWell,Ô I offered lamely, Óat least your lips havenÒt gone blue.Ô
        Gunnar shrugged, and swayed a little, like maybe he was having one of his dizzy spells.
        ÓSo ... you think you might make it all the way through next yearØÔ I asked.
        Gunnar looked at the stack of time in his hands. ÓItÒs possible that I could linger.Ô
        Which was more than I could say for his backyard. I went over to his house that Wednesday to continue work on the dust bowl. It was hard spending time in the Universe of Umlaut now. There were just too many things hanging in the air. GunnarÒs imminent death, for example. And the weirdness with their father, and then there was the looming date with Kjersten.
        I know that a date with the girl of your dreams shouldnÒt Óloom,Ô but it does. ItÒs worse when you gotta see each other after youÒve asked her out but before the actual date. ItÒs kind of like saying good-bye to somebody and then realizing you both gotta get in the same elevator. You canÒt talk because you already said good-bye, so usually you both stand there feeling like idiots.
        So now IÒd asked Kjersten out, she said yes, and here I was at her house two days before the actual date. I knew as soon as she got home from tennis practice, it would be elevator time.
        As for the Umlaut backyard, it was officially dead×nothing had survived our herbicidal assault. Even a few of the neighborsÒ plants had suffered, because the herbicide had seeped into their soil a bit.
        ÓThatÒs what you call Øcollateral damage,ÒÔ Gunnar said. He looked at the growing desolation around us. ÓMaybe we can hire some bums and urchins to populate the scene.Ô
        Right about then Mrs. Umlaut called from the house, asking if we wanted hot chocolate since it was getting cold. Instead we asked for Óa cuppa joe straight from the pot,Ô which was satisfyingly Steinbeck-like. Of course it would have worked better if she hadnÒt brought out an automatic-drip glass pot with a floral design.
        ThatÒs when Kjersten got home, and came out to say hello. I was happy to see her, in spite of it feeling awkward.
        ÓI hear youÒre the schoolÒs official Cupid,Ô she said with a smirk, obviously referring to the new currency of love in our school, for which I was supplying the paperwork.
        ÓI donÒt shoot the arrows, I just load the bow.Ô
        Gunnar groaned and rolled his eyes at that. The smile Kjersten had for me faded when she looked at the big hunk of granite in the middle of our dust bowl. I had gotten so used to seeing the unfinished tombstone there, I had forgotten about it.
        ÓYou should move that thing,Ô Kjersten told him. ÓItÒs an eyesore.Ô
        ÓNaa,Ô Gunnar said. ÓPeople died in the dust bowl, so having a gravestone makes it more authentic.Ô
        Kjersten threw me a look, but I turned away. I knew better than to put myself in the middle of this. Instead I just busied myself brushing dirt clods off my jeans.
        ÓAre you staying for dinnerØÔ Kjersten asked.
        ÓNo,Ô I told her, way too quickly. ÓIÒm working at my dadÒs restaurant tonight.Ô After the last Umlaut meal, IÒd rather be pushing menus and pouring water than having to sit at that table again. I think IÒd rather be ON the menu than have to eat with their father, if he came home.
        Kjersten must have read my mind, because she said, ÓItÒs not always that bad.Ô
        ÒYes it is,Ô said Gunnar, chugging some of the hot coffee.
        ÓDo you always have to be so negativeØÔ Kjersten asked. I wanted to tell her that maybe she should cut her dying brother a little slack, but siding against a prospective girlfriend in any situation is unwise.
        Gunnar shrugged. ÓIÒm not being negative, IÒm just telling the truth.Ô Then he glanced at the coffeepot. ÓJust like Benjamin Franklin said, ØTruth can only be served from a scalding kettle; whether you blister or make tea is up to you.ÒÔ
        Kjersten gave him a disgusted look that actually made her appear slightly less beautiful, which I hadnÒt thought was possible. ÓMy brotherÒs nowhere near as smart as he thinks he is.Ô
        Then she turned to storm off.
        ÓIÒm smart enough to know where Dad goes,Ô said Gunnar.
        It stopped Kjersten in midstorm, but only for an instant. Then she picked up her stride and continued inside, without even turning back to give Gunnar an ounce of satisfaction.
        Once she was gone, Gunnar and I continued to hurl plants into Hefty bags in silence. Now that Kjersten had reminded me of the gravestone, I couldnÒt stop looking at it. The elephant in the dust bowl. But for once Gunnar wasnÒt obsessing over his own eventual doom. His thoughts were somewhere else entirely.
        ÓThree times,Ô Gunnar said, finally breaking the silence. ÓThree times I checked the odometer in my dadÒs car before he left and after he got back, then did the math. All three times, he traveled somewhere that was between a hundred and thirty and a hundred and forty miles away.Ô
        It was good detective work, I guess, but was only half the job. ÓIt doesnÒt mean much if you donÒt know which direction heÒs going.Ô
        ÓTry northwest.Ô Then Gunnar reached into his pocket and flipped me a red disk. ÓI found this in his car.Ô Even before I caught it, I knew what it was.
        ÓA poker chipØ HeÒs playing pokerØÔ
        ÓProbably blackjack or craps,Ô Gunnar said ÓTake a closer look.Ô
        The chip was red with black stripes around the edge. There was an A printed in the center.
        ÓThe Anawana Tribal Casino,Ô Gunnar said. ÓAnd, according to MapQuest, itÒs one hundred and thirty-seven miles from our front door.Ô

9. Echolocate This



        Everybody gambles. You donÒt have to go to a tribal casino to do it either. You do it every day without even realizing it. It could be as simple as skipping your math homework on Tuesday night because you know that your math teacher has cafeteria duty before class on Wednesday, so chances are homework wonÒt be checked, because cafeteria duty will crush the spirit of any teacher.
        You gamble when you put off applying for a summer job until July 1×betting that your desire to earn money is outweighed by the fact that you probably wonÒt get the job anyway, so why bother wasting valuable time that could be spent not cleaning your room, or not doing the dishes, or not doing math homework on TuesdayØ
        The point is, every decision we make is a gamble. My parents are in the middle of a major gamble themselves. TheyÒre risking everything on the restaurant. I admire them for it, because theyÒre betting on themselves, which is kind of a noble thing to do. Then, on the other hand, there are the ten lottery tickets my mom buys each week, which are just plain embarrassing.
        ÓWhatÒs the pointØÔ my brother Frankie says whenever he sees one lying around. ÓDo you know scientists have determined that youÒre more likely to get struck by lightning five times than winØÔ Which makes me wonder if some poor slob gets his fifth lightning strike every time someone wins the lottery, and how badly do you have to piss off God to be that guyØ
        ÓI know the odds are terrible,Ô Mom always says. ÓBut I still get excited. The excitement is worth ten dollars a week.Ô
        I guess thatÒs okay×but what happens when ten dollars becomes a hundredØ Or a thousandØ When does it become a problemØ It must happen so slowly, so secretly, that nobody notices until it becomes a terminal illness of its own.
        See, my parents can gamble with their restaurant and itÒs okay, because hard work and talent can change the odds in your favor.
        But nothing changes the odds in a casino; they got all these big fancy hotels in Vegas to prove it. The house takes back around 15 percent of all the money gambled, guaranteed. You might win a thousand bucks today and youÒll be all excited, totally forgetting that over the past year you lost a lot more than you just won.
        Life is kind of like thats×I guess Gunnar knew that more than anyone. All our little daily thrills donÒt change the fact that our chips eventually run out. ItÒs the scalding pot of truth we gotta make tea out of. The teaÒs pretty good most of the time, unless youÒre that poor slob who got struck by lightning five times. If youÒre him, I canÒt help you, except to point out that your life has the noble purpose of making the rest of us feel lucky.
        I didnÒt know where Mr. Umlaut was on the lightning-lottery scale, but I had a feeling he was standing in a stormy field, wearing lots of metal.


***
        On Saturday night I was determined to put all the struggles of the Umlaut family out of my mind entirely. This was to be a night of fun. This was my first date with Kjersten.
        Of course we wouldnÒt be alone×it was a double date with Lexie and Clicking Raoul. Like I said, I couldnÒt turn down the chance to take Kjersten to a fancy restaurant, and CrawleyÒs was among the fanciest. I was quick to discover that the responsibility of dating an older woman is enough to fry all your brain cells. The logistics alone ... How are you going to travelØ Does she drive youØ Is that humiliating if she doesØ Do you take a bus, and if you do, does that make you seem cheapØ Do you call a taxi and go broke from cab fare even before you get where youÒre goingØ Or do you walk there together and have everyone snicker at you because sheÒs taller than youØ
        In the end, I settled for simply meeting her at the restaurant. My mother raised an eyebrow when I let it slip before I left that Kjersten had a car.
        ÓThis girl youÒre seeing drivesØÔ
        ÓNo,Ô I answered. ÓItÒs one of those self-driving cars×she just sits there.Ô
        My mother is usually pretty quick, but I suppose she didnÒt trust her own grasp of changing technology, because she said, ÓYouÒre kidding, rightØÔ It was very Howie-like. I found that disturbing.
        ÓIÒll be home by eleven,Ô I told her as I headed out the front door. ÓAnd just in case IÒm not, I put the morgue on your speed dial.Ô
        ÓCut my heart out while youÒre at it.Ô
        ÓIÒll put it on my to-do list.Ô
        I made a mental note to actually put the morgue on her speed dial. SheÒd be mad, but I also knew sheÒd laugh. Mom and I have a similar sense of humor. I find that disturbing, too.
        I arrived ten minutes early, dressed in my best shirt and slacks. Kjersten arrived three minutes late, and was dressed for an evening on the Riviera.
        ÓIs this too muchØÔ she asked, looking at her gown that reflected light like a disco ball. ÓI heard that CrawleyÒs has a dress code.Ô DonÒt get me wrong, it wasnÒt tacky or anything×in fact, it was the opposite. Heads turned when she walked in. I kept expecting flashes from the paparazzi.
        ÓItÒs perfect,Ô I told her with a big grin. The gown and the way she had put up her hair made her look even older, and I started to imagine us like one of those tests they give little kids. The one that goes: WhatÒs wrong with this pictureØ A girl in a gown, crystal chandeliers, a waiter carrying lobsters, and Antsy Bonano. A first grader would pass this test easy.
        I greeted her with a kiss on the cheek in clear view of the entire restaurant, in case there was any doubt who she was with.
        ÓYou look great,Ô I told her. ÓBut you already know that, rightØÔ
        We were seated at a table for four, and I wasnÒt quite sure whether I was supposed to sit next to her, or across from her, so I sat down first, and let her choose. This was probably the wrong thing to do, because the waiter gave me a look like my mother gives when I do something inexcusable. Then he went to pull out KjerstenÒs chair for her×clearly what I was supposed to have done.
        ÓI hope you donÒt mind this double-date thing,Ô I said.
        ÓJust as long as theyÒre not all double dates,Ô she said with a little smile. She reached across the table and took my hand. ÓIÒve never been taken on a date to a place this fancy before. You score a ten.Ô
        Which meant there was nowhere to go but down.
        ÓOf course,Ô she said ... a little bit awkwardly, ÓIÒve never been on a double date with a blind couple before.Ô
        ÓDonÒt worry×theyÒre just like people who can see,Ô I told her. ÓExcept that they canÒt.Ô
        ÓI donÒt want to say or do anything wrong ...Ô
        ÓDonÒt worry,Ô I told her, ÓthatÒs my department.Ô
        Lexie and Raoul arrived a minute or so later, and I wondered where theyÒd been, since Lexie lives right upstairs, and then I wondered why IÒd wondered. I went up to Lexie and took her hand. Kjersten was confused by this, until I guided LexieÒs hand into hers. It was something I was just used to doing; it spared Lexie the awkwardness of an inexact docking procedure when it came to shaking hands.
        We sat at a table that used to be reserved for famous people from Brooklyn, until they realized that people from Brooklyn who got famous never came back.
        Lexie released Moxie, her Seeing Eye dog, from his harness as soon as we sat down, and he obediently took his place beside her chair.
        We made awkward small talk for a while about the differences between public high school and their ultra-high-end school for the wealthy blind. For a brief but unpleasant few moments, the girls had this little tennislike discussion about me, like I wasnÒt there×all I could do was follow the ball back and forth.
        ÓI like Antsy because heÒs not afraid to say whatÒs on his mind,Ô serves Kjersten.
        ÓBelieve me, I know,Ô returns Lexie. ÓEven when he shouldnÒt say anything at all.Ô
        ÓOh, but thatÒs the fun part,Ô Kjersten smashes for the point.
        I decided a change in subject matter was called for.
        ÓSo,Ô I said to Raoul as the busboy poured water not quite as expertly as I did, Óyou donÒt have a guide dog×is that because clicking does it allØÔ
        ÓPretty much,Ô said Raoul proudly. ÓEcholocation makes canes and canine companions seem positively medieval.Ô HeÒd been pretty quiet until now, but once the conversation became about him, he perked up. ÓPersonally, I think it could be an adaptive trait. Evolutionary, you knowØÔ
        ÓRaoul doesnÒt have a guide dog because most people donÒt get them until theyÒre older,Ô Lexie explained curtly. ÓTechnically IÒm not supposed to have one either, but you know my grandfather×he pulled some strings.Ô
        ÓI donÒt need one, anyway,Ô Raoul said. Then he clicked a few times and determined the relative location of our four water glasses, and the fact that mine was only half full, on account of the busboy had run out of water since he didnÒt check his pitcher the way youÒre supposed to before you start pouring. And he calls himself a busboy!
        ÓThatÒs amazing!Ô Kjersten said.
        But I wasnÒt so convinced. ÓHe could have heard the water being poured.Ô
        ÓCould have,Ô Raoul said, Óbut I wasnÒt paying attention.Ô ÓOkay, then,Ô I said, crossing my arms. ÓHow many fingers am I holding upØÔ
        ÓHe canÒt be that specific,Ô said Lexie, jumping to his aid, but Raoul clicked, and said: ÓNone. You didnÒt even put up your hand.Ô
        Kjersten looked at me, and grinned.
        ÓAll right, Raoul wins,Ô I admitted. ÓHeÒs amazing.Ô
        ÓAnd the crowd goes wild!Ô said Raoul.
        ÓCan we just orderØÔ said Lexie, running her finger across the Braille menu. Maybe it was my imagination, but she was moving her finger a little too fast for her to actually read it. IÒve seen Lexie read before. I knew the pace of Braille×or at least her Braille. Kjersten was watching me watching her, so I looked away. Maybe a double date with Lexie wasnÒt a good idea after all.
        ÓTheyÒre flying me out to Chicago next week,Ô Raoul said. ÓTo do a national talk show.Ô
        At that, Lexie closed her menu a little too hard. The sudden clap made Moxie rise to his feet, then sit back down again.
        Raoul reached out, gently rubbed his hand along her sleeve, and then took her hand. ÓWhatÒs wrong, babyØÔ
        I grimaced at that. I couldnÒt help myself. If you knew Lexie Crawley at all, you knew never to call her Óbaby.Ô That, and the fact that he was holding her hand, just kind of gave me mental dry heaves. I mean, sure, I was dating Kjersten, but I think the human brain isnÒt designed to deal with situations like this.
        I looked over at Kjersten, who noticed my reaction, and again I looked away.
        ÓYou donÒt have to accept all those TV invitations,Ô Lexie told Raoul. ÓAnd you donÒt have to echolocate for people all the time. YouÒre not a sideshow act.Ô
        ÓI donÒt mind.Ô
        ÓWell, you should.Ô
        Suddenly I found my menu to be a place of safety. ÓIÒm thinking maybe the ribs,Ô I said. ÓHow about you, KjerstenØÔ
        ÓIsnÒt this a seafood placeØÔ
        ÓYeah, well, I donÒt like seafood.Ô
        ThatÒs when KjerstenÒs phone rang. Even her ring tone was cool. NeuroToxinÒs new hit. She pulled the phone out of her purse, looked at the number, then dropped it back in. ÓNot important,Ô she said, although the look on her face said otherwise.
        The waiter took our orders, and once he was gone, small talk became big silence, until Raoul said, ÓI can echolocate the number of people in the room×wanna seeØÔ
        Lexie stood up suddenly. ÓI need to freshen up.Ô Moxie rose when she did, but she went off without him.
        Even though Lexie knew this restaurant inside and out, there were enough people moving around to make navigating to the bathroom like flying through an asteroid field. I got up to escort her.
        ÓIÒll be right back,Ô I said to Kjersten, who smiled at me politely. ÓI gotta go to the bathroom anyway.Ô
        As Lexie and I neared the restroom, I heard KjerstenÒs phone ring again. I glanced back just long enough to see her answer it.
        ÓI like Raoul,Ô I told Lexie. ÓHeÒs kinda cool.Ô
        ÓIf he ever stops talking about himself.Ô We were at the restroom doors, but Lexie didnÒt make a move to go in. ÓHaving a special ability is all fine and good. But thereÒs got to be more to a person than sonar.Ô
        ÒYeah ... I guess if he didnÒt have that, heÒd be pretty boring, huh.Ô I thought about how the conversation was all about him and his uniqueness back at the table, and I realized it wasnÒt because he was conceited; it was because he had nothing else to talk about.
        ÓKjersten seems very nice,Ô Lexie said. ÓIÒm happy for you ...Ô I knew Lexie well enough to know there was an implied ÓbutÔ at the end of that sentence. I waited for the but to present itself.
        ÓBut... thereÒs something about her,Ô Lexie finally said. ÓI donÒt know, itÒs not quite right.Ô
        ÓYou barely said a word to each other×how can you tell anythingØÔ
        ÓI have a sense about these things.Ô
        ÓBeing blind doesnÒt make you psychic,Ô I said, sounding more annoyed than I intended to. No×actually I intended to sound exactly like that.
        ÓThereÒs something in her tone of voice,Ô Lexie said, Ósomething in the silences. ItÒs ... off.Ô ÓSo whatØ SheÒs got family stuff going on, thatÒs all,Ô I said. ÓHer brotherÒs illness.Ô
        ÓThat may be part of the reason.Ô
        ÓThe reason for whatØÔ
        ÓFor why sheÒs going out with you.Ô
        I didnÒt like the way this conversation was heading. ÓMaybe she just likes me×did you ever think of thatØÔ
        ÒYes, but why does she like youØÔ
        ÓWhy does she need a reasonØ She just does! What×you think itÒs strange that a girl whoÒs two years older than me, really smart, and looks like a supermodel would want to date meØÔ There are some things you just shouldnÒt say out loud. ÓOkay, maybe it is strange. But whatÒs wrong with thatØ So sheÒs strange. So am I×so are you×since when was there a law against thatØÔ
        ÓMaybe itÒs not you she likes. Maybe itÒs the idea of you.Ô
        ÓYeahØÔ I said. ÓWell, maybe you should take the idea of yourself into that bathroom, because I donÒt want to talk to you anymore.Ô
        She stormed into the bathroom without anyoneÒs help, and with the grace of someone who knew exactly where they were going. Any human asteroid in her way had better watch out. Well, I wasnÒt going to walk her back. I pulled aside the busboy who couldnÒt pour water right and told him to escort Miss Crawley back to the table when she was done.
        She was jealous. That was it. Had to be. Just like I was jealous of her and her clicking celebrity boyfriend. But that would pass. Things were just getting started between Kjersten and me, and I wasnÒt going to let Lexie ruin it.
        When I got back to the table, Kjersten was putting on her coat.
        ÓWhatÒs the matterØ You coldØÔ
        ÓIÒm sorry, Anthony. IÒve got to go.Ô
        My first response was to look at Raoul. ÓWhat did you doØÔ I asked, figuring maybe he clicked her cleavage, and told her the size of her bra.
        ÓNothing,Ô said Raoul. ÓShe had a phone call.Ô ÓIt was my father. IÒm grounded.Ô
        I just looked at her for a while in stunned denial, like the time I was a kid and my mother told me weÒre not going to Disney World, on account of the airline suddenly decided to go out of business.
        ÓWhatØ You canÒt get grounded in the middle of a date. ThatÒs like ... thatÒs like against the law.Ô
        ÓI was grounded before the date,Ô she admitted. ÓIÒm not supposed to be out, but my mom doesnÒt care, and my dad wasnÒt home.Ô
        ÓExactly×heÒs never home, so that voids the grounding, rightØÔ
        ÓHeÒs home now.Ô She zipped up her jacket, sealing away the view of her amazing dress from me and the paparazzi.
        ÓCanÒt you be like ... rebellious or somethingØÔ
        ÓI was rebellious×thatÒs why IÒm grounded.Ô
        I found myself wondering what she had done, and coming up with things that were probably much more exotic than what really happened. Then I said in a voice far more whiny than I meant it to be, ÓCanÒt you be rebellious with meØÔ
        She looked at me, and I could tell that she really did want to stay. But I could also tell from that look that she wouldnÒt. Then she kissed me, and by the time I recovered from the kiss, she was gone. The waiter, totally clueless, brought the meals and set them down, but right now it was just me and Raoul×and it was anyoneÒs guess if Lexie would come out of the bathroom after what I said to her.
        I sat down, dazed by the crash-and-burn of it all, and Raoul says, ÓSo do you want me to echolocate the number of people in the room, or notØÔ

10. Collateral Damage, Relative Humidity, and Lemon Pledge in the Dust Bowl of My Life



        I want to make it absolutely clear that what happened to GunnarÒs neighbors was an accident×and for once, I get to share the blame with someone else.
        With our dust-bowl due date just a few days away, Gunnar and I were under a time constraint, and we were working too hard on this Steinbeck project to get marked down for being late. I have experience in that department, and know for a fact that there are teachers who measure lateness in microseconds on that world clock they got in England. And thereÒs no bottom to this pit. I actually once got a Z-minus on a late paper. I pointed out to the teacher that she coulda marked me even lower if she used the Russian alphabet, on account of it has something like thirty-three letters instead of twenty-six. She was impressed enough by the suggestion that she raised my grade to a Z-plus.
        To avoid letter grades in the lower half of the alphabet, Gunnar and I needed to kill off the plants quickly to get our dust bowl rolling, so we used a lot of herbicide. Now GunnarÒs next-door neighbors were all ticked off because their yards were smelling like toxic waste. It was Sunday morning. The day after my not-quite-a-date with Kjersten. I really didnÒt want to be there and have to face Mr. Umlaut, who I held personally responsible for ruining my evening. And I didnÒt want to face Kjersten just yet, because it was too soon after the walkout. But I had to go through the house to get to the backyard. I was hoping Gunnar would answer the door, but he was already working out back.
        Kjersten answered the door.
        ÓHi.Ô
        ÓHi.Ô
        ÓNice day.Ô
        ÓSunny.Ô
        ÓSunÒs good.Ô
        ÓYeah.Ô
        ÓAnyway...Ô
        ÓRight.Ô
        I tried to put an end to the misery by moving toward the back door, but she wasnÒt letting me. Not yet.
        ÓSony about last night,Ô she said. ÓWeÒll do it again, okayØÔ
        ÓYeah, sure, no problem.Ô
        ÓNo,Ô she said. ÓI mean it.Ô
        And I could tell that she really did mean it. Deep down, I had kind of felt that a ruined evening meant ruined hopes. It was good to know that another, better date was still on the horizon.
        ÓWhenÒs your grounding overØÔ I asked.
        ÓAs soon as I get the grade back on my chemistry test tomorrow×and my father can see I didnÒt need to skip my tennis tournament to study.Ô
        I smiled. ÓAnd here I thought you cut school for a wild ski trip.Ô Which was one of my tamer scenarios. I took her hand and stood there for a long moment that, believe it or not, didnÒt feel awkward at all, then I went out to the backyard.
        There was all this cardboard in the yard, because todayÒs project was a cardboard shack for SteinbeckÒs starving farmers. At the moment I arrived in our little dust bowl, Gunnar was being scolded by his next-door neighbor over the fence. ÓLook what youÒve done to my yard! ItÒs all dead!Ô
        ÓItÒs that time of year,Ô I offered, pointing out the dead leaves around her yard. ÓThatÒs why they call it Øfall.ÒÔ
        ÓOh yeahØÔ she said. ÓWhat about the evergreensØÔ
        She indicated some bushes way across the yard that had gone a sickly shade of brown. Then she looked bitterly down at some thorny, leafless bushes in front of her that could have just been dormant if we didnÒt already know better×because if the herbicide had made it all the way across the yard, these nearby bushes were history.
        ÓDo you have any idea how long IÒve cultivated this rose gardenØÔ
        My next response would have been a short and sweet ÓOops,Ô but Gunnar has last weekÒs vocabulary word, which I lack: eloquence.
        ÒÓOnly when the Rose withers can the beauty of the bush be seen,ÒÔ he told her. It shut her up and she stormed away.
        ÓWhat does that even meanØÔ I asked after she was gone.
        ÓI donÒt know, but Emily Dickinson said it.Ô
        I told him that quoting Emily Dickinson was just a little too weird, and he agreed to be more testosterone-conscious with his quotations. He looked over at the neighborsÒ yard, surveying the ruins of the garden. ÓA little death never hurt anyone,Ô he said. ÓIt gives us perspective. Makes us remember whatÒs important.Ô
        I hadnÒt been too worried about the about the neighborsÒ plants dying until now. Collateral damage, rightØ Only this was more than just collateral damage×and only later did we realize why. See, guys all have this problem. ItÒs called the we-donÒt-need-no-stinkinÒ-directions problem. Gunnar and I had bought half a dozen jugs of herbicide, coated the plants with the stuff like we were flocking Christmas trees, and we were satisfied with the results. We could have done a commercial for the stuff . . . However, if we had read the directions, we would have seen that the stuff was concentrated×you know, like frozen orange juice: we were supposed to use one part herbicide to ten parts water. So basically we sprayed enough of the stuff to kill the rain forests.
        Now all the lawns around GunnarÒs house, front and back, were going a strange shade of brown that was almost purple. Our dust bowl was spreading outward like something satanic.


***
        When I got home, my mom wasnÒt with my dad at the restaurant, like she usually is on Sunday afternoons. She was home, cleaning. This was nothing unusual×but the sheer intensity of the scouring had me worried×like maybe the toxic mold was back, and this time it was personal.
        Turns out, it was worse.
        ÓAunt Mona is coming to visit,Ô Mom told me.
        I turned to my sister Christina, who sat cross-legged on the couch, either doing homework or trying to levitate her math book. ÓNo×tell me itÒs not true!Ô I begged.
        Christina just lowered her eyes and shook her head in the universal this-patient-canÒt-be-saved gesture.
        ÓHow longØÔ
        ÓHow long till she comes, or how long will she stayØÔ Christina asked.
        ÓBoth.Ô
        To which Christina responded, ÓNext week, and only God knows.Ô
        ItÒs always that way with Aunt Mona. Her visits are more like wartime occupations. SheÒs the most demanding of our relatives×in fact, we sometimes call her Órelative humidity,Ô on account of when MonaÒs around, everybody sweats. See, Aunt Mona likes to be catered to×but lately the only catering Mom and Dad have been able to do is of the restaurant variety. Plus, when Aunt Mona arrives, all other things manage to get put on hold, and weÒre all expected to ÓvisitÔ with her while sheÒs here×especially those first couple of days. With the dust bowl due, tests in every class before Christmas vacation, another date to schedule with Kjersten, and GunnarÒs illness hovering like a storm, Aunt Mona was the last thing I needed.
        Just so you know, Aunt MonaÒs my fatherÒs older sister. She has a popular business selling perfume imported from places IÒve never heard of, and might actually be made up×and she always wears her own perfume. I think she wears them all at one once, because whenever she visits, I break out in hives from the fumes, and the neighborhood clears of wildlife.
        SheÒs very successful and business-minded. Nothing wrong with that×I mean, my friend IraÒs mom is all hard-core business, and sheÒs a nice, normal, decent human being. But Aunt Mona is not. Aunt Mona uses her success in cruel and unusual ways. You see, Aunt Mona isnÒt just successful, sheÒs More Successful Than You, whoever you happen to be. And even if sheÒs not, she will find a way to make you feel like the pathetic loser you always feared you were, deep down where the intestines gurgle.
        Aunt Mona works like 140-hour weeks, and frowns on anyone who doesnÒt. She has a spotless high-rise condo in Chicago, and frowns on anyone who doesnÒt. In fact, she spends so much time frowning and looking down her nose at people, she had a plastic surgeon change her nose and Botox her frown wrinkles.
        It goes without saying, then, that Aunt Mona is the undisputed judge of all things Bonano×even though she changed her name to Bonneville because it sounded fancier, and because Mona Bonano sounded too much like that ÓName GameÔ song. IÒm sure as a kid she was constantly teased with ÓMona-Mona-bo-bona, Bonano-fano-fo-fona.Ô And as if Bonneville wasnÒt snooty enough, she added an accent to her first name, so now itÒs not Mona, itÒs Mona. I refuse on principle to ever pronounce it ÓMona,Ô and I know she resents it.
        It turns out that Aunt Mona was considering moving her entire company to New York, so she was going to be here for a while. She could, of course, afford one of those fancy New York hotels, where the maids clean between your toes and stuff, but thereÒs this rule about family. ItÒs kind of like the Ten Commandments, and the Miranda rights they read you when you get arrested: Thou shalt stay with thy relatives upon every visit, and anything you say can and will be used against you for the rest of your life.
        So MomÒs Lemon Pledging all the dining-room furniture until the wood shines like new, and she says to me, ÓYou gotta be on your best behavior when Aunt Mona comes.

        ÒYeah, yeah,Ô I tell her, having heard it all before.
        ÓYou gotta treat her with respect, whether you like it or not.Ô
        ÓYeah, yeah.Ô
        ÓAnd you gotta wear that shirt she gave you.Ô
        ÓIn your dreams.Ô
        Mom laughed. ÓIf that shirtÒs in my dreams, theyÒd be nightmares.Ô
        I had to laugh, too. The fact that Mom agreed with me that the pink-and-orange ÓdesignerÔ shirt was the worst piece of clothing yet devised by man somehow made it okay to wear it. Like now it was an inside joke, instead of just an ugly shirt.
        I picked up one of her rags and polished the high part of the china cabinet that she had trouble reaching. She smiled at me, kinda glad, I guess, that I did it before she asked.
        ÓSo, do I gotta wear the shirt in publicØÔ
        ÓNo,Ô she says. ÓMaybe,Ô she adds. ÓProbably,Ô she concludes.
        I donÒt argue, because whatÒs the useØ When it comes to Aunt Mona, the odds of walking away a winner are worse than at the Anawana Tribal Casino. Anyway, I suppose wearing the shirt was better than Mom and ChristinaÒs fate. TheyÒd have to wear one of Aunt MonaÒs perfumes.
        Right around then the doorbell rang, and Mom looked up at me with wide eyes and froze. I know what she was thinking. Aunt Mona never showed up when scheduled. She would come early, she would come late, she would come on a different day altogether. But a whole week earlyØ
        ÓNaa,Ô I said to Mom. ÓIt couldnÒt be.Ô
        I went to answer it, fully prepared for a blast of flesh-searing fragrance. But it wasnÒt Aunt Mona×instead it was two kids×fourth or fifth graders by the look of them, holding out pieces of paper to me.
        ÓHi, weÒre collecting spare time for a kid whoÒs dying or something×would you like to donateØÔ ÓLet me see that!Ô I snatched one of the papers from them. It was my own blank contract×second- or third-generation Xerox, by the look of it. Someone had taken one of my official contracts and was turning out counterfeits!
        ÓWhereÒd you get thisØ Who said you could do thisØÔ
        ÓOur teacher,Ô said one kid.
        ÓOur whole class is doing it,Ô said the other.
        ÓSo are you going to donate, or whatØÔ
        ÓGet lost.Ô I slammed the door in their faces.
        So now collecting for Gunnar had become a school fund-raiser. I felt violated. Cheated. Betrayed by the educational system.
        I didnÒt bother my parents with this×they had enough on their minds, and theyÒd probably just say ÓSo whatØÔ and theyÒd be right. It was petty and dumb to think that I owned the whole idea ... but the thing is, I liked being the Master of Time. Now there were people running around, doing it on their own, without official leadership. They call that anarchy, and it always leads to things like peasants with pitchforks and torches burning things down.
        ÓThink of those little kids as disciples,Ô Howie said, when I mentioned it to him the next day. ÓJesusÒ disciples did all the work for him after he wasnÒt around no more.Ô
        ÓYeah, well, IÒm still here×and besides, Jesus knew his disciples.Ô
        ÓThatÒs only because the lack of technology in those days forced people to have to know each other. Now, because of computers, we really donÒt gotta know anybody, really.Ô
        Then he went on about how today the Sermon on the Mount would be a blog, and the ten plagues on Egypt would be reality TV. None of this addressed the issue, so I told Howie I was leaving, but by all means he should continue the conversation without me.
        I think this whole prickly, offended feeling was the first warning. I was sensing things getting out of control×not just out of MY control, but out of control in general. My little idea of giving Gunnar a month to make him feel better was now turning into a monster. And everyone knows what they do to monsters. ItÒs pitchforks and torches again. That happens, see, because people think the monsterÒs got no soul.
        As it turns out, theyÒd be right this time. My monster didnÒt have a soul... and I was about to find that out.

11 ItÒs Amazing What You Can Get for $49.95



        ThereÒs this junkyard off of Flatlands Avenue where they salvage anything they can from junked cars and dump the cars into massive piles before crushing them into metal squares about the size of coffee tables. ItÒs the kind of place you might invent in a dream, although in a dream, the metal squares would talk to you, on account of theyÒd be haunted by the people who got murdered and thrown into the trunk before the car got crushed.
        Gunnar and I went there looking for rusty engine parts to put in a corner of our dust bowl, to add to the atmosphere of despair.
        I did most of the looking, because Gunnar was absorbed in the catalog he was reading. ÓWhat do you think of this oneØÔ he said to me while I was looking at a pile of bumpers too modern for our purposes. I didnÒt look at the catalog because I didnÒt want any part of it.
        ÓTell you what. Why donÒt you make it a surpriseØÔ
        ÓCome on, Antsy, I need your opinion. I like this white one, but itÒs a little too girlie. And then this one×I donÒt know, the wood looks like my kitchen cabinets. That just feels weird.Ô
        ÓIt all feels weird,Ô I told him.
        ÓIt must be done.Ô
        ÓSo let someone else do it. Why should you careØ YouÒre gonna be inside it, youÒre not gonna be looking at it.Ô
        Now he was getting all miffed. ÓItÒs about the image I want people to be left with, why canÒt you understand thatØ It needs to express who I was, and how I want to be remembered. ItÒs about image×like buying your first car.Ô
        I glanced at the catalog and pointed. ÓFine×then go with the gunmetal-gray one,Ô I said, fairly disgusted. ÓIt looks like a Mercedes.Ô
        He looked at it and nodded. ÓMaybe I could even put a Mercedes emblem on it. That would be cool.Ô
        The fact that Gunnar could discuss coffins like it was nothing didnÒt just freak me out, it made me angry. ÓCanÒt you just pretend like everythingÒs okay and go about your life, like normal dying peopleØÔ
        He looked at me like there was something wrong with me instead of him. ÓWhy would I want to do thatØÔ
        ÒYouÒre not supposed to be enjoying it. ThatÒs all IÒm trying to say. Enjoy other stuff... but donÒt enjoy... that.Ô ÓIs it wrong to have a healthy attitude about mortalityØÔ
        Before I can even deal with the question, I hear from behind me×
        ÓYo! Dudes!Ô
        I turn to see a familiar face coming out from behind a pile of taillights. ItÒs Skaterdud. He gives me his official Skaterdud handshake, which IÒve done enough to actually remember this time. He does it with Gunnar, who fakes his way through it convincingly.
        ÓDÒya get my kick-butt donationØÔ Skaterdud asks.
        ÓHuhØÔ says Gunnar, ÓOh, right×a whole year. That was very cool.Ô
        ÓLiquid nitrogen, man. WeÒre talking freeze-your-head-till-they-can-cure-you kind of cool, am I not rightØÔ
        ÓNo ... I mean yes. Thank you.Ô
        ÓHey, ever consider that, man×the deep freezeØ CryonicsØ I hear they got Walt Disney all frozen underneath the Dumbo ride. The chilliest place on earth, rightØ Gotta love it!Ô
        ÓActually,Ô I said, ÓthatÒs made up.Ô
        ÓYeah,Ô admitted Skaterdud, Óbut donÒt you wish it wasnÒtØÔ
        ItÒs then that I realize that I am the gum-band of sanity between these two jaws of death. On the one hand thereÒs Gunnar, who has made dying the focus of his life, and on the other hand, thereÒs Skaterdud, who sees his fatal fortune as a ticket to three carefree decades of living dangerously.
        Suddenly I wanted to be anywhere else but in the mouth of madness.
        ÓListen, Skaterdud, I got somewhere I gotta be,Ô which was true×and for once I was grateful I was needed to pour water at my dadÒs restaurant. ÓDo you know where we could find car parts so old and cruddy nobody actually wants themØÔ
        Turns out Skaterdud knew the salvage yard well×his dad was the guy who crushed cars.
        ÓGo straight, and turn left at the mufflers,Ô he told us. ÓBest be careful. AinÒt no rats donÒt got steroid issues around here. WeÒre talking poodle-sized, comprendeØÔ
        ÓRats donÒt bother me,Ô Gunnar said.
        I, on the other hand, have no love of furry things with non-furry tails. As I rummaged through the appropriate junk pile, afraid to put my hand in any dark hole, I began to wonder if IÒd be more like Gunnar or Skaterdud if I knew the time of my final dismissal. Would all of lifeÒs dark holes seem insignificantØ
        ÓYouÒre right,Ô Gunnar said out of nowhere. He put down his catalog and reached deep into the pile of junk to dislodge a truck piston. ÓIÒll go for the gunmetal-gray coffin. ItÒs classier.Ô
        Maybe itÒs just me, but IÒd rather be scared of rat holes than not care.
        As Gunnar went off in search of boxes we could carry the stuff in, Skaterdud called me aside and waited until Gunnar was too far away to hear.
        ÓSomething ainÒt wrong about that friend of yours,Ô said the Dud.
        I was a little too tired to decipher dud-ese right now, so I just shrugged.
        ÓNo, you gotta listen to me, because I see things.Ô
        That didnÒt surprise me entirely. ÓWhat kinds of thingsØÔ
        ÓJust things. But itÒs more the things I donÒt see thatÒs got my neck hairs going porcupine on me.Ô Then he looked off after Gunnar again, shaking his head. ÓSomething ainÒt wrong about him at all×and if you ask me, heÒs got iceberg written all over him.Ô
        We rode home from the junkyard in a public bus, carrying heavy boxes of car parts that greased up the clothes of anyone who passed. We didnÒt say much, mostly because I was thinking about what Skaterdud had said. Talking to the Dud was enough to challenge anyoneÒs sanity, but if you take the time to decode him, thereÒs something there. The more I thought about it, the more I got the porcupine feeling he was talking about×because I realized he was right. It had to do with GunnarÒs emotional state. It had to do with grief. All this time I was explaining away GunnarÒs behavior, as if it was all somehow normal under the circumstances, because, face it, IÒve never been around someone whoÒs got an expiration date before. There was no way for me to really gauge what was standard strangeness, and what was not.
        But even I had heard about the five stages of grief.
        TheyÒre kind of obvious when you think about them. The first stage is denial. ItÒs that moment you look into the goldfish bowl that you havenÒt cleaned for months and notice that Mr. Moby has officially left the building. You say to yourself, No, itÒs not true! Mr. Moby isnÒt floating belly-up×heÒs just doing a trick.
        Denial is kinda stupid, but itÒs understandable. The way I see it, human brains are just slow when it comes to digesting really big, really bad hunks of news. Then, once the brain realizes thereÒs no hurling up this double whopper, it goes to stage two. Anger.
        Anger I can understand.
        How DARE the universe be so cruel, and take the life of a helpless goldfish!
        Then you go kick the wall, or beat up your brother, or do whatever you do when you get mad and you got no one in particular to blame.
        Once you calm down, you reach stage three. Bargaining.
        Maybe if I act real good, put some ice on my brotherÒs eye, clean the fishbowl and fill it with Evian water, heaven will smile on me, and Mr. Moby will revive.
        AinÒt gonna happen.
        When you realize that nothingÒs going to bring your goldfish back, youÒre in stage four: sadness. You eat some ice cream, put on your comfort movie. EverybodyÒs got a comfort movie. ItÒs the one you always play when you feel like the world is about to end. Mine is Buffet of the Living Dead. Not the remake, the original. It reminds me of a kinder, simpler time, when you could tell the humans from the zombies, and only the really stupid teenagers got their brains eaten.
        Once the credits roll, and youÒve completed stage four, youÒre ready for stage five. Acceptance. It begins with a flush, sending Mr. Moby the way of all goldfish, and ends with you asking your parents for a hamster.
        So IÒm sitting there on the bus holding car parts while GunnarÒs browsing through his catalog again, and I suddenly realize exactly what Skaterdud meant.
        Gunnar never faced stages one through four.
        He went straight to acceptance. This crisis, which would have thrown most peopleÒs worlds into a tailspin, instead left Gunnar in a perfect glide. There was something fundamentally wrong about things being so ÓrightÔ with Gunnar. So maybe, as Skaterdud suggested, Pulmonary Monoxic Systemia was just the tip of this iceberg.
        Gunnar and I invited our whole English class to our dust bowl for dinner a few nights later, promising Óauthentic dust-bowl cuisine.Ô Since everyone knew my dad had a restaurant, more than a dozen people actually showed×including our teacher, so we were able to present our report right there. We served everyone a single pea on dusty china, to emphasize what it meant to be hungry in 1939. Our classmates thought we were jerks, but Mrs. Casey appreciated the irony. People kept asking what the faint chemical smell was, and I kept looking to the sky, praying for rain, probably looking like one of SteinbeckÒs characters×although I wasnÒt interested in making the corn grow, I just wanted the herbicide to wash away. Gunnar gave the verbal presentation, and I handed Mrs. Casey the written contrast between the book and the movie. She said we did a credible job, which, I guess is better than incredible, because we got an A. I wonder what she would have said if she saw GunnarÒs unfinished gravestone, which I forced him to cover with a potato sack before anyone showed up. When she gave back the written report,
it came with a contract for two months, signed, witnessed, and stapled to the back of the report.


***
        I went to my computer that night to escape thinking too much, or at least to force myself to think about things that didnÒt matter. See, when youÒre on the computer, you get really good at what they call multitasking, and usually the tasks you have to multi are so pointless you can have endless hours without a single useful thought. ItÒs great.
        So IÒm chatting online with half a dozen people, trying to maintain all these conversations while simultaneously trying to read all these e-mails filled with OMGs and LOLs that arenÒt even F, while attempting to delete the obvious spam, like all those people in Zimbabwe who have like fourteen million dollars to give me, and the e-mails offering pills ÓguaranteedÔ to enlarge your muscles and other things.
        Anyway, there I am, sorting online crud, when I notice something I rarely give any attention to: the ad banner at the bottom of the screen. Usually those ad banners are bad animations that say things like SHOOT THE PIG AND QUALIFY FOR OUR MORTGAGE. IÒve never lowered myself to shooting the pig. But right now the only thing on that banner was a single question, in bright red.
        WHATÒS WRONG WITH YOUØ
        I think I must have seen this one before but it was all subliminal and stuff, because there are many times IÒm sitting at this computer asking myself that same question. Meanwhile, all the chats are demanding responses. IraÒs is on top. At first he was trying to convince me about how old movies are better than new ones. HeÒs gotten snooty all of a sudden that way, and anytime youÒre over his house, he forces you to watch classic movies like Casablanca and Alien. After chatting for like half an hour, heÒs gotten tired of movie talk, and now heÒs just telling dead-puppy jokes. This is where things go with
        Ira, no matter how snooty he pretends to be. I ignore it, and keep my eyes on the ad. Now the answer dances across the banner to join the question.
        WHATÒS WRONG WITH YOUØ ASK DR. GIGABYTE!
        At first I just chuckled. EverythingÒs a website now. It was the next line that really got me.
        WITH DR. G, DIAGNOSIS IS FREE!
        I sat there staring and blinking, and shaking my head. GunnarÒs doctor was also a ÓDr. G.Ô I figured it was just a coincidence. It had to be. I mean, one out of every twenty-six doctors would be Dr. G, rightØ Well, not exactly, but you know what I mean.
        A scoop of ice cream, some root beer, and a dead puppy, IraÒs instant message says. HeÒs waiting for my LOL, but right now IÒve got bigger puppies to fry.
        R U still thereØ
        BRB, I type.
        I keep wanting to ignore the Dr. G thing, but I canÒt. ItÒs stuck in my head now.
        Maybe itÒs legitimate, I tried to tell myself. Maybe itÒs just a real, live doctor who does online consultations.
        What did one dead puppy say to the other dead puppyØ
        I donÒt care, I answered. GTG. TTYL, I told him, and then I added, IGSINTDRN. I closed the IM window, taking a little pleasure in the fact that Ira would spend hours trying to figure out what that meant.
        I watched a string of other ad banners. Singing chickens, man-eating french fries, aliens in drag. I have no idea what they were all advertising, and I really donÒt want to know. Then the ad for Dr. G came back. WHATÒS WRONG WITH YOUØ I clicked on the ad.
        It took me to a very professional-looking page that asked me to enter my symptoms. Did I have symptomsØ Well, I was overdue for new shoes, and the ones I had were too small, so my toes have been hurting. I entered Toes hurt. Then it asked me about twenty other questions, all of which I answered as honestly as I could.
        Are your toes discoloredØ
        No.
        Do you live in a cold climateØ
        Yes.
        Are your ankles swollenØ
        No.
        Have you been bitten by a rodentØ
        Not to my knowledge.
        When all the questions had been answered, the website made me wait for about a minute, my anticipation building in spite of myself, and then it gave me a bright blinking diagnosis.
        You may be suffering from rheumatic gout complicated by lead poisoning.
        To avoid amputation or death, seek a full diagnosis,
        available here for $49.95.
        All major credit cards accepted.
        When I clicked no thanks it took me to a screen that offered pills to relieve my symptoms, which also had the favorable side effect of enlarging muscles and other things.
        I tried it three more times. My growling stomach was intestinal gangrene. The crick in my neck was spinal meningitis. The tan line from my watch was acquired melanin deficiency. All could be further diagnosed for $49.95, and all could be treated with the same pills.
        I did a lot of pacing that evening. So much that Christina, buried in her homework, actually noticed.
        ÓWhatÒs up with youØÔ she asked as I paced past her room.
        I considered telling her, but instead I just asked, ÓHave you ever heard of Dr. GigabyteØÔ
        ÓYeah,Ô she said. ÓIt told me my zit was late-stage leprosy.Ô
        And, grasping at my last straw of reason, I asked, ÓWhat if it isØÔ
        ÓPlease, God, let it be true,Ô Christina said. ÓBecause a leper colony would be better than this.Ô Then she turned her attention back to her math book.


***
        There are no words to describe the muddy mix of things you feel the moment you realize your friend probably isnÒt dying, but instead is conning you. It means that no matter how much you thought you knew him, you donÒt know him at all.
        I still had no proof, only suspicion×after all, Gunnar really could have a different Dr. G×but I had a gut feeling that was impossible to ignore. The more I thought about it, the more certain I was. If Gunnar wasnÒt dying, it would go a long way to explaining his familyÒs behavior. The way they never talked about it, as if . . . well, as if it wasnÒt actually happening. And what about KjerstenØ Was Kjersten in on thisØ Could she beØ I suppose I could wrap my mind around Gunnar pretending to be sick×but I couldnÒt believe Kjersten would be in on it, too. It made me realize I didnÒt know, or understand, her all that well either.
        I truly hoped his illness was fake. IÒd be relieved if it was×and yet at the same time, the thought was already making me mad. See, I had wasted all that time collecting months for him, thinking I was doing something noble×something that might make his limited time a little brighter×and he accepted those months without the slightest hint of the lie. If this was a con, then everyone had been taken in×there was even that stupid time thermometer by the main office. Sure, IÒd be thrilled to know he wasnÒt dying×but I couldnÒt deny the dark river of anger running beneath it. Just the right conditions for a sinkhole.

12. Repossession Is Nine-tenths of the Law, The Other Tenth Is Not My Problem



        Mr. Umlaut was home that night. I had hoped he wouldnÒt be, because his presence added an even greater air of tension. His Lexus was in the driveway, but not for much longer, because it was being hooked up to a tow truck.
        Good, I thought. If his car is in the shop, maybe he wonÒt go running off to that casino as much.
        He stood there in an undershirt, in spite of the cold, watching his car as it was raised. His hands were in his pockets, and his shoulders slumped.
        ÓHi,Ô I said awkwardly. ÓI need to talk to Gunnar.Ô
        ÓYeah, yeah×heÒs inside.Ô
        He didnÒt look at me when he spoke, or take his hands out of his pockets, and I got the feeling that if I had asked to see Attila the Hun, his response would have been, ØYeah, yeah×heÒs inside.Ô
        The front door was open a crack. I pushed it all the way open and stepped inside. Gunnar and Kjersten were in the living room×Gunnar was listening to an iPod so loudly I could hear the song all the way across the room. Kjersten sat on the sofa×but not in the way you usually sit on a sofa×she was sitting stiff and straight, like it was a hard chair. All at once I recognized this scene. This was the aftermath of a family fight. Mrs. Umlaut was nowhere to be seen, but I suspected she was either upstairs in a room with the door locked, or in the basement violently doing laundry, or somewhere else where she could be alone with whatever emotions had gotten stirred. I wondered if this had anything to do with the car breaking down.
        Kjersten noticed me first, but she didnÒt smile and say hello. In fact, she didnÒt seem happy to see me at all. Under the circumstances, I wasnÒt entirely thrilled to see her either, but I told myself not to judge things until I had all the facts.
        ÓHi,Ô I said, trying to sound as casual as humanly possible, ÓwhatÒs upØÔ
        ÓAntsy, this isnÒt a good time.Ô
        Well, call me callous, but I had a mission today and would not be put off by a family squabble. ÓYeah, but I need to talk to your brother,Ô I told her.
        ÓPlease, Antsy×just come back later, okayØÔ
        ÓThis canÒt wait.Ô
        Kjersten gave a resigned sigh, then threw a sofa pillow at Gunnar, getting his attention. He saw me and took off his earphones.
        ÓGood, youÒre just in time to witness this pivotal moment of our familyÒs history,
        said Gunnar, seeming resigned, disgusted, amused, and angry all at the same time×a combination of emotions I usually associate with Old Man Crawley. ÓHave a seat, and enjoy the show,Ô he said. ÓYou want me to get you some popcornØÔ
        Kjersten threw another pillow at him. ØYouÒre such an idiot!Ô
        ÓIÒm here to talk about Dr. G,Ô I said, cutting to the chase. ÓOr should I say, Dr. GigabyteØÔ
        Then his cool expression hardened until he looked like a stubble-free version of his father. ThatÒs when I knew my suspicions were right. It was all there in that look on his face. ÓThereÒs nothing to talk about,Ô he said.
        ÓI think there is.Ô
        He pushed past me. ÓTalk all you want to Kjersten×IÒm sure youÒd much rather talk to her anyway.Ô And he was gone, bounding up the stairs. A second later I heard a door slam.
        I turned to Kjersten, but she wouldnÒt look at me. Not that she was intentionally ignoring me, but she clearly had bigger things on her mind at the moment. Personally, I didnÒt think a family argument was bigger than her brother faking a terminal illness. It occurred to me that in my conversation with Gunnar, I never asked him the question directly. The answer was heavy in the air, but the question needed to be asked.
        ÓGunnar isnÒt really sick, is heØÔ
        She looked at me for the first time since I had been alone with her. It was an odd look. I didnÒt understand it. She seemed bewildered.
        ÒYouÒre joking, rightØÔ
        ÓSo ... then heÒs actually sickØÔ
        ÓOf course not!Ô She took a moment to gauge my seriousness, and her expression became a bit worried. ÓYou mean you didnÒt knowØÔ
        That threw me for a loop. I stammered a bit, and finally shut my mouth long enough to control it and simply said, ÓNo.Ô
        ÒYou mean you werenÒt just humoring himØ Playing alongØÔ ÓWhy would I do thatØÔ
        ÓBecause youÒre a good person.Ô
        ÓIÒm not that good!Ô
        ÒYou mean all this time ... all those contracts . . . you really thought he was dyingØÔ said Kjersten. ÓI just thought it was a smart way to force Gunnar to snap out of it, and admit the truth!Ô
        ÓIÒm not that smart!Ô
        She covered her mouth with both hands. ÓOh no!Ô Her entire understanding of the situation was based on the premise that everyone knew Gunnar was faking. Now I could see all her thoughts cascading like dominoes. If I didnÒt know, then other kids didnÒt know, which meant the whole school believed Gunnar was dying. The fact that this was news to her made me feel sympathetic, and annoyed at the same time.
        ÓDid you actually think Principal Sinclair was just Øplaying alongÒØÔ
        ÓPrincipal SinclairØÔ
        ÓDid you think that stupid time thermometer was all part of some practical jokeØÔ
        ÓWhat thermometerØÔ
        I explained it all to her, because between tennis, debate team, and the static filling her family life, she had missed some crucial things. She never heard my Morning Announcement, never noticed the thermometer. She knew that time donations were pouring in, but she thought it was just from other kids. She had no idea that it had become Óofficial,Ô and that the faculty had begun donating months.
        ÓThere was a message on the answering machine, from Sinclair,Ô Kjersten said. ÓBut I erased it before I heard the whole thing×I thought it was one of those school recordings we always get.Ô Which was understandable, since Principal Sinclair did sound like an automated message. I suspected there must have been more messages that Gunnar erased himself, knowing full well they were not recordings.
        Then I thought about something Kjersten had said. She thought I was trying to get Gunnar to Ósnap out of it.Ô
        ÓDoes Gunnar actually believe Dr. GigabyteØÔ I asked. ÓDoes he really think heÒs dyingØÔ
        The question just frustrated her. ÓHow should I knowØ You know what heÒs like×no one can ever figure out what heÒs really thinking.Ô
        I was relieved to know that it wasnÒt just me. If he stymied his own sister, it meant he was more of a mystery, and I was less of a numbskull.
        Out front I heard the scrape of metal on pavement, and glanced out of the window to see the tow truck leaving the driveway, scraping the underside of the Lexus on the curb as it did. Mr. Umlaut just stood there and watched it go. I almost expected him to wave.
        ÓSo whatÒs wrong with your carØÔ I asked, in an attempt to change the subject.
        ÓItÒs not our car,Ô Kjersten said. ÓAt least not anymore.Ô Then she got up and closed the blinds so she didnÒt have to look at her father standing in the driveway. ÓIt just got repossessed.Ô
        This is something I knew a little bit about. When my parents got my brother Frankie a car, he was supposed to get a part-time job and make payments on it. He didnÒt, and the family fights all became about how theyÒd come and take the car away. Dad was going to let the bank repossess the car to teach Frankie a lesson, but it never got that far×Frankie got the job, started making payments, and the threatening phone calls and letters in red ink stopped coming. I wondered how many letters and phone calls you had to ignore until they actually showed up at your door.
        ÓMy father tried to stop them by ripping out some hoses so they couldnÒt drive it away. Then they sent a tow truck.Ô
        ÓIÒm sorry,Ô was all I could say to Kjersten. Now I felt like an idiot for dismissing the whole thing as just a family argument×but before I started beating myself up over it, I did a quick search for ultracool Antsy, who seemed to be easier to find these days. Even without thinking, I knew what he would do. I went to her, and gave her a gentle kiss. She kissed me back with a little bit of spark, so I kissed her again with slightly higher voltage, and she returned that with enough electricity to light Times Square, but before circuit breakers started popping, we shut it down, because we both knew this wasnÒt the time or place. Just my luck, rightØ
        ÓDonÒt be too hard on Gunnar,Ô Kjersten said.
        ÓHey, youÒre the one throwing pillows at him.Ô
        With a gust of cold air, Mr. Umlaut came in and saw Kjersten and me standing a little too close. I made no move to back away from her. Sometimes a guyÒs gotta stand his ground.
        ÓI thought your business was with Gunnar,Ô he said.
        ÓYeah, well, I got lots of business.Ô
        He looked from me to Kjersten, to me again, like he was watching one of her tennis matches. Finally he settled his gaze on her, and he pointed the parental threatening finger.
        ÓWeÒll talk about this later.Ô Without looking at me again, he went to the back of the house and I heard the door to his study close. This was a house of many closing doors.
        ÓWe wonÒt talk,Ô Kjersten said. ÓHe says that all the time, but we never do.Ô Kjersten smiled at me, but there wasnÒt much joy in that smile.
        ÒYeah,Ô I said, shaking my head in understanding. ÓFathers and follow-through . . .Ô My own father didnÒt follow through on much of anything these days×threats or promises×since he started the restaurant. But Mr. Umlaut did not have work as an excuse.
        ÓI just wish things could be the way they were a couple of years ago,Ô Kjersten said, Óback when everything was fine×or at least when I was naive enough to think it was.Ô Some warmth came back to her smile as she looked at me. I was glad I could have that effect on her. ØYouÒre lucky youÒre a freshman×youÒve got your whole life ahead of you.Ô
        That made me laugh. ÓAnd you donÒtØÔ
        She kissed me gently on the forehead, then looked out to the grease spot on the driveway where her fatherÒs car had been. ÓMy life is going to change very soon.Ô


***
        ÓWhoever it is, I have no intention of letting you in.Ô
        I knocked on GunnarÒs door again. A more sensible guy might have been satisfied with KjerstenÒs kisses and left, convincing himself that Gunnar was somebody elseÒs problem, but I donÒt possess the self-preservation instinct. IÒve got the this-frying-pan-isnÒt-hot-enough-letÒs-try-the-fire instinct. I must have been Roadkyll Raccoon in a previous life.
        I knocked again. This time there was no response, but I did hear the door being unlocked. I opened it to find Gunnar lying facedown on his bed, with a pillow over his head to shut out the world. This was quite a feat×because just a second ago he had unlocked the door. He must have hurried back to his bed at lightning speed, just so he could present himself to me in this state of anguish.
        I sat at his desk chair, realizing he couldnÒt stay that way for long×heÒd have to breathe eventually. Sure enough, he loosened the grip on the pillow, turned to see me for just a split second, then turned his face the other way.
        ÓGo away,Ô he said. But if he really wanted me to go away, he wouldnÒt have unlocked the door.
        I said to him the one thing I could think to say under the circumstances. ÓIÒm sorry youÒre not dying.Ô
        He sat up and faced me. He seemed insulted. ÓWho says IÒm notØ Just because itÒs a Dr. Gigabyte diagnosis doesnÒt mean itÒs not true.Ô
        ÓWell, then maybe my sister has leprosy.Ô
        He showed no sign of being surprised or confused by that, and I wondered if maybe he had, at some point, been given that diagnosis by Dr. Gigabyte, too.
        ÓHave you seen any real doctorsØ What do they sayØÔ
        ÓI donÒt care what they say. ØThe enlightened man knows the workings of his own body and soul.ÒÔ
        ÓWho said thatØÔ I asked.
        I could see him thinking and he said, ÓThe Dalai Lama.Ô
        ÒYou made that up!Ô
        ÓSo what.Ô
        And then I had a sudden revelation. ÓYou made them all up!Ô Even as I said it, I knew it was true. Nobody could have so many quotes-for-all-occasions at their fingertips. ÓNone of those people ever said those things, did theyØ Your quotes are all fake!Ô
        He looked down at the pillow in his hands, and punched it like he was kneading a wad of dough. ÓThat doesnÒt mean they couldnÒt have said them,Ô he mumbled.
        I laughed. Maybe it was the wrong thing to do, but the fact that even his pretensions were pretend struck me as funny. He didnÒt react well to that. He stood up, and went to the door. ÓIÒd like you to leave now.Ô
        This time I think he meant it. ÓWell, for what itÒs worth, IÒm actually glad youÒre not dying.Ô I stood up and went to the door. ÓDo your parents have any idea youÒve been conning the whole schoolØÔ
        ÓIÒm not conning anybody,Ô he said. ÓMy life is over. Whether or not I actually die is just a technicality.Ô
        But before I could ask him what that meant, he closed the door between us.
        The next day×the Friday before a desperately needed Christmas vacation×I was hauled into the principalÒs office again. This time he already had other guests×a man and a woman in expensive-looking business suits. When I walked in, they both stood up. I flinched, like you do when the cat jumps out in a horror movie.
        ÓAh,Ô said Principal Sinclair, ÓhereÒs the boy IÒve been telling you about.Ô I shook their hands×but canÒt remember their names, on account of my brain was still processing the fact that they had been talking about me×but IÒm pretty sure that the woman was the newly elected superintendent of schools.
        ÓAnthony has been spearheading a schoolwide community-service effort to give hope to a terminally ill student.Ô
        ÓUh ... yeah,Ô I said, looking anywhere but at the three of them. ÓFunny you should mention that...Ô
        ÓIÒve heard all about it,Ô said the superintendent. ÓWe need more students like you.Ô
        That almost made me laugh.
        ÓIf you donÒt mind,Ô the man said, ÓweÒd like to donate time, too.Ô
        Call me a gutless wonder, but I didnÒt have the courage to let them know the truth about Gunnar and his Óillness.Ô I tried, but the words stuck in my throat and clung to my tonsils like strep, refusing to come out.
        ÓYeah, sure, why not,Ô I said, and reached into my backpack, pulling out two blank time contracts for them to fill in and sign, with my principal signing as witness. Then, when it was done, Principal Sinclair sat on the corner of his desk, in that casual IÒm-your-principal-but-IÒm-also-your-friend kind of way. ÓNow, IÒm sure youÒve heard that the student council has organized a rally for Gunnar during the first week of January,Ô he said.
        ÓThey haveØÔ
        ÓYes×and I think you should give a speech, Anthony.Ô
        There comes a moment in every really, really bad situation when you realize your canoeÒs leaking, thereÒs no paddle, and you can hear Niagara Falls up ahead. ThereÒs nothing you can do but hold on and pray for deliverance. I donÒt mean the movie Deliverance, which is, coincidentally, about canoes×I mean real, Hail Mary, Twenty-third Psalm kind of deliverance.
        ÓIÒm not good at speeches.Ô ÓIÒm sure youÒll do fine,Ô said the superintendent. ÓJust speak from the heart.Ô
        And the other guy said, ÓWeÒll all be there to support you.Ô
        ÓYouÒll be thereØÔ I asked. The Falls were getting louder by the minute.
        ÓThis school,Ô said the principal, Óis under consideration as a National Blue Ribbon school. Academics are only a part of that. The school must also demonstrate that its students are committed to making the world a better place . . . and you, Anthony, are our shining star.Ô

13. Kidnap Ye Grouchy Gentleman, with Something to Dismay



        In spite of what happened on the Double Date From Hell, my friendship with Lexie was back to normal. ÓI care about you too much to be anything more than mildly furious at you,Ô she had told me, but even then, I could tell she wasnÒt furious at all.
        The two of us kidnapped her grandfather as planned×the first Saturday of Christmas vacation. As usual, Old Man Crawley had no concept of what was in store for him today. ÓI donÒt want to do this!Ô he yelled as I fought to blindfold him. ÓIÒm calling the police! IÒll skewer you on the end of my cane!Ô But this was all part of the ritual.
        By the time we got him out to his chauffeured Lincoln, he had stopped complaining about being kidnapped. Now he merely complained about the conditions.
        ÓYou forgot my winter coat.Ô
        ÓItÒs a warm day.Ô
        ÓI just ate. If I have digestive problems because of this, I wonÒt be happy.Ô
        ÓWhen are you ever happyØÔ I asked.
        ÓYour attitude does not bode well for your paycheck.Ô
        But I knew he paid me for my attitude as well. It was all part of the ambience of the experience. ÓThis oneÒs special, Grandpa,Ô Lexie assured him. ÓThatÒs what you always say,Ô he grumbled.
        Our Holiday Kidnapping Extravaganza was a zip line fifty feet off the ground through the treetops of Prospect Park×the largest park in Brooklyn. Lexie had arranged to have engineering students build the zip line for class credit. There were two platforms equipped with rope-and-pulley lift systems, because Old Man Crawley couldnÒt be expected to climb a ladder. Flying down the wire from one tree to the other, you reached a top speed of about forty miles an hour.
        This was a good distraction from the Gunnar Debacle, as I was now calling it, since I figured IÒd earned the right to be as pretentious as him. Still, it weighed heavily on my mind.
        As the chauffeur drove to Prospect Park, I told Lexie everything.
        ÓI knew it!Ô she said. ÓI knew something was wrong with that whole family. I could tell the way whatserface left that night without as much as a good-bye.Ô
        ÓYou were pouting in the bathroom,Ô I reminded her. ÓShe couldnÒt say good-bye to you. And anyway, IÒm not breaking up with her, if thatÒs what youÒre thinking. The problem is with her brother, not her.Ô
        I had had enough time to really think about GunnarÒs behavior, and realized that this wasnÒt just a simple con. He wasnÒt faking in the traditional sense. ThereÒs a fine line between being a hypochondriac and being a faker. I think Gunnar was speeding down that particular zip line at speeds in excess of forty miles an hour.
        ÓSounds to me,Ô said Lexie, Óthat heÒs more miserable at the prospect of being healthy than being sick.Ô
        ÓExactly! ItÒs like he actually wants to have Pulmonary Monoxic Systemia.Ô And I posed to her the question that had been rattling in my head for days. ÓWhy would anyone WANT to be dyingØÔ
        ÓMunchausen,Ô said Lexie.
        I was tempted to say Ógesundheit,Ô but I took the more serious route instead. ÓWhatÒs thatØÔ I asked. ÓSounds bad.Ô
        ÓIt can be. ItÒs a mental illness where someone lies about being sick, to get attention. There are people who give themselves infections, so they can go to the doctor. There are people who make their own children sick.Ô
        ÓAll for attentionØÔ
        ÓWell,Ô said Lexie, ÓitÒs complicated.Ô
        ÓWhich means,Ô grumbled her blindfolded grandfather, Óthat youÒre wasting your breath trying to explain it to him.Ô
        I thought about Gunnar. Did he want attentionØ He got a lot of it already. He was popular, girls liked him, everyone knew him. He wasnÒt starving to be noticed . . . but, on the other hand, he wasnÒt exactly the focus of his parentsÒ lives these days. But, on the other hand, neither was I, and I wasnÒt telling everyone I had a dreaded disease, although IÒm sure there are some people who are convinced I do.
        We reached Prospect Park and walked Crawley, still blindfolded, to the first tree. When we took off the blindfold, Crawley made a move to run, but I caught him. This was a standard part of the ritual, too.
        ÓThis is too dangerous!Ô he shouted as we moved him onto a platform rigged with pulleys×probably more than were necessary, but after all, it was done by engineering students×they were trying to show off. ÓThere must be laws against things like this!Ô ÓThatÒll be a great quote for your tombstone,Ô I said, but then I shut up, because it reminded me of Gunnar.
        Crawley gave me the kind of gaze that knows no repeatable words, and we were hoisted up to the high platform, where one of the engineering students waited with sets of harnesses, helmets, and gear that looked like it was meant for space walks.
        ÓHow far is it to the other platformØÔ I asked the engineering guy next to me, but before he could answer, Crawley said bitterly:
        ÓLexieÒs boyfriend could probably tell you.Ô And he made some clicking noises.
        ÓStop it, Grandpa.Ô
        Now that he was safely in his harness, I pushed him and he went flying down the zip line, screaming and cursing for all he was worth.
        ÓSo how is RaoulØÔ I asked Lexie.
        ÓRaoul and I agreed it was best to end it.Ô
        ÓIÒm sorry.Ô
        ÓNo youÒre not.Ô
        ÓYes, I am,Ô I told her. ÓBecause now youÒre going to want me to end it with Kjersten, just to keep the status quo.Ô
        ÓStatus quo,Ô she said. ÓBig words for you.Ô
        ÓIÒm Catholic,Ô I reminded her. ÓI get Latin.Ô Then I gave her a gentle shove, and she shot down the zip line, toward her grandfather and the nervous engineering students waiting to catch her.
        ÓItÒs a quarter mile,Ô said the engineering student, who had been waiting all this time to answer my question, Óbut it feels a lot longer!Ô
        I pulled up the rear, shouting and whooping as the landscape of Prospect Park shot beneath me. This kidnapping was a winner! The zip line did exactly what it was supposed to do×it filled our senses and souls with excitement. It reminded us what it meant to be alive. For twenty shining seconds there was nothing but me, the wind, and the fifty feet between me and the ground. The engineering guy was wrong. It felt too short!
        By the time I arrived, Crawley had already recovered some of his usual demeanor.
        ÓSo, whaddaya thinkØÔ I asked.
        ÓIÒm only mildly impressed.Ô From him, this was a five-star review.
        ÓIt was . . . exhilarating,Ô Lexie said. I could tell she hadnÒt cared for it. When youÒre flying down a zip line, I suppose sight is a sense worth having.
        The students lowered us from the platform, working hard on the pulleys like medieval sailors, and as we descended, Crawley said to me, ÓAs usual, youÒre missing the obvious.Ô
        ÓExcuse meØÔ
        ÓWith regard to your not-quite-dying friend×youÒre missing the obvious.Ô I crossed my arms. ÓSo tell us. We await your brilliance, O Ancient One.Ô
        For once he ignored my sarcasm. ÓItÒs not that he wants to die×itÒs that he needs to be sick. The sooner you find out why he needs to be sick, the sooner you can solve this mystery and return to your mediocre existence.Ô
        I didnÒt respond, because as much as I hated to admit it, I knew he was right.
        ÓNow,Ô he said, Ótake me back to the other tree, so we can do that again.Ô


***
        Crawley contacted the parks department shortly after the kidnapping and offered to build a zip line tourist attraction in Prospect Park. He got the blessing of the city, and wouldnÒt you know it, the zip line was already in place. Any minute heÒll be making a hefty profit from it.
        ÓThe difference between you and me,Ô he once told me, Óis that when I look at the world, I see opportunity. When you look at the world, youÒre just trying to find a place to urinate.Ô

***
        When I got home that afternoon, I decided to play Sherlock Holmes and figure out why Gunnar needed to be sick. I did some in-depth research on Pulmonary Monoxic Systemia.
        Although the disease is almost always fatal within a year of diagnosis, huge strides were being made in research recently, and there were early reports that test patients were living longer, healthier lives. The leading research and all the hopeful results were coming from Columbia University Medical Center, right in Manhattan.
        I thought about Dr. G. The thing with the Dr. G website is that you can throw out the same basic symptoms, and each time it would diagnose you with something else. I wonder how many diagnoses Gunnar had gotten before he convinced himself that this is what he had.
        And wasnÒt it convenient that all the hope for GunnarÒs illness lay right here in New YorkØ
        Before I could think about it much further, I got a call from my father. He needed me to work at the restaurant. The Crawley kidnapping had exhausted me, and it was the last thing I wanted to do today.
        ÓThere are laws against child labor,Ô I told him.
        ÓArenÒt you always telling us youÒre not a childØÔ
        ÓWhat about my homeworkØ Is your restaurant more important than my educationØÔ
        ÓItÒs our restaurant, not just mine×and didnÒt Christmas vacation start todayØÔ
        I knew he had me.
        I showed up at seven and did my job, but the whole situation with Gunnar never left my mind entirely. Sure, it was vacation, but there was a big fat Gunnar-themed rally waiting for me when vacation was over. I was irritable, but maintained an air of professionalism for most of the evening. Things would have been fine if it hadnÒt been for the single certified idiot at table number nine.
        He arrived at around seven-thirty with a scowling wife, and two kids who wouldnÒt stop fighting. From the moment he sits down, this guy starts complaining. His fork has spots on it; the wine isnÒt cold enough. The appetizer came out too late and the main course came out too early. He demands to see the manager, and my father comes over. IÒm standing there, refilling water glasses, after having been chewed out by the guy for not having refilled them the instant he took a sip. For him I donÒt bother with skillful pouring.
        ÓHow can you call this a restaurantØÔ the guy complains while his kids kick each other under the table. ÓThe service is lousy, the food came out cold, and thereÒs a horrible stench in the air.Ô
        Well, first of all, the service was perfect, because my mother was his waitress, and she is the queen of quality control. Secondly, I know the food was hot, because I served it myself, and nearly burned my hands on the plate. And third, the horrible stench was coming from his son.
        But my dad×he gets all apologetic, offering free dessert, and discounts off the guyÒs next visit, and such. That just makes me angry. See, my dad used to work in a big corporation, full of guys like this, so he had developed an idiot-resistant personality. I, on the other hand, had not. All I had going for me at the moment was a big pitcher of ice water.
        This is why I could never get a job as a busboy in a restaurant my family didnÒt own ... because, for the first time in my water-pouring history, I missed the glass. In fact, all the water in the pitcher missed the glass, and found the top of the guyÒs head instead.
        After I was done pouring the pitcher of ice water on him, he finally fell silent, and stared at me in total shock. And I said, ÓIÒm sorry×did you want bottled water insteadØÔ
        To my amazement, the rest of the restaurant started applauding. Someone even snapped a picture. I was ready to take a bow, but my father grabbed my arm. He grabbed it hard, and when I looked at him, the expression in his eyes was not one of gratitude. ÓWait for me in the kitchen,Ô he growled. Very rarely did my father speak in growls. When he was mad he usually yelled, and that was okay. Speaking in growls was not. I hurried off to the kitchen, sat on a stool, and waited, feeling more like a little kid than I had in years.
        Christina came up to me. I donÒt know if she saw what happened, but IÒm sure she guessed the gist. ÓI made a swan for you,Ô she said, and handed me a folded napkin.
        ÓThanks,Ô I said. ÓGot any Himalayan mantras I can recite for the occasionØÔ
        ÓIÒm beyond that now,Ô she told me. ÓIÒm into chakra points.Ô She massaged some spots on my back that failed to relax me, then went to fold more napkins.
        Dad did not come back to talk to me at all that night. He just let me stew on the stool. Mom would occasionally pass by to pick up orders and would scowl, shake her head, or wag her finger. Then eventually she gave me a plate of food. ThatÒs how I knew Dad was truly, truly angry. If Mom felt sorry enough for me to feed me, it meant I was in a world of trouble.
        Eventually Mom just sent me home, because she couldnÒt stand to see me sitting there so miserably on that stool.
        Before my parents got home that night, I got a call from Old Man Crawley, who must have had spies in the restaurant again.
        ÓDid you actually pour a pitcher of water over a manÒs headØÔ he asked.
        ÓYes, sir,Ô I replied. I was too exhausted to make excuses.
        ÓAnd did it feel good to do soØÔ
        ÓYes, sir, it did. He was an idiot.Ô
        ÓWas this a premeditated attack on your partØÔ
        ÓUh ... no, sir. It was kind of... spontaneous.Ô
        He paused for a long time. ÓI see,Ô he finally said. ÓYouÒll be hearing from me.Ô And he hung up. He didnÒt even bother to torment me with how much I had disappointed him×thatÒs how bad this was. I couldnÒt help but feel that ÓyouÒll be hearing from meÔ were among the worst possible words to hear at the end of a conversation with Crawley. It was even worse than ÓyouÒll be hearing from my attorney.Ô
        This water incident might have meant a whole lot of bad things×including retribution against my father somehow×after all, it was CrawleyÒs money that got my dadÒs restaurant going. Crawley could shut it down with a snap of his fingers, and I wouldnÒt put it past him to do it.


***
        Dad did not punish me when he got home. He didnÒt punish me the next day. He just avoided me. It didnÒt feel like an intentional cold shoulder×it felt more like he was so disgusted, he just didnÒt want to have anything to do with me. It wasnÒt until Monday that I found out why.
        On Monday the news had a headline that read:
        BUSBOY BAPTIZES BOSWELL
        And there it was, not on page four of the school paper, but smack on the cover of the New York Post×a full-page picture of the idiot from table nine, drenched in water, and me holding the empty pitcher. It was the picture taken by one of the other diners that night.
        Getting your picture on the cover of the New York Post is never a good thing. It means that youÒre either a murderer, a murderee, or a humiliated public official. This time it was option three. The idiot from table nine was none other than Senator Warwick Boswell, and I was the one who had humiliated him.
        That morning my father was already scouring the classifieds for job opportunities, as if he was expecting the restaurant to shut down in a matter of days.
        ÓDad, IÒm sorry...Ô It was the first time I tried to breach the silence between us, but he put up his hand.
        ÓLetÒs not do this, okay, AntsyØÔ He didnÒt even look up at me.
        ThatÒs how it was for most of Christmas vacation. And it hurt. See, in our family we fought, we yelled, we gouged at one anotherÒs feelings, and then we made up. Our fights were fiery×never cold, and it got me to thinking about what my mom had once said about hell×how itÒs all cold and lonely. Now I knew she was right, because IÒd rather have fire shooting out of my dadÒs mouth like a dragon than suffer this nuclear winter.
        My dad and I used to be able to talk. Even when something was bad, even when we were ready to strangle each other, we could talk. But not now.
        LetÒs not do this, okay, AntsyØ
        Entire species died in that kind of cold.

14. Nobody Likes Me, Everybody Hates Me, Think IÒll 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 MomÒs 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 canÒt come till after New YearÒs. Typical.
        ÓIt wouldnÒt be a visit from Mona,Ô Mom said, Óif she didnÒt ruin the plans we made around her.Ô
        ÓShe did us a favor,Ô 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.
        ÓYou watch,Ô said Mom, Ówhen she does come, sheÒll show up without any warning, and expect us to drop everything.Ô
        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 wasnÒt 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 wasnÒt 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 IØ 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 usØ Going there didnÒt feel right. I wasnÒt ready to face Gunnar×I didnÒt 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 sickØ Why did he let it go so farØ Why did he have to draw me into itØ 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 neighborhoodÒs 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 Umlaut door. A big green Christmas wreath . .. but when I got closer, I could see it was plastic.
        Gunnar answered the door.
        ÓIÒm here to see your sister,Ô I told him.
        He looked at the wrapped package in my hands. ÓSheÒs upstairs.Ô 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.
        ÓYouÒre still not cyanotic,Ô I said to him. ÓBut if itÒs that important to you, you can buy some blue lipstick and pretend that you are.Ô
        He turned to me then. I could tell he was hurt, even though it didnÒt 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, ÓThat would have been much more effective if you bought some for me as a Christmas gift,Ô then he left.
        ÓWish I had thought of it,Ô I shouted after him. Actually, I had thought of it, but I wouldnÒt sink so low as to get him a cruel gift. Besides, I didnÒt 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 EarthÒs primordial ooze. It seemed odd that sheÒd be watching this. In fact, she was so absorbed, it took her a moment to notice I was there.
        ÓAntsy!Ô
        ÓHi.Ô It came out sounding like a one-word apology.
        She stood up and gave me a hug. ÓYouÒre not having much luck with photographers lately, are youØÔ I could see the special Antsy edition of the New York Post on her desk.
        ÓNo,Ô I admitted, Óand now thereÒs an animated version on the YouTube.Ô
        ÓCould be worse,Ô 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.
        ÓI used to love this show,Ô she said.
        ÓSo did I,Ô I told her. ÓWhen I was, like, eight.Ô
        She sighed. ÓThings were simpler then.Ô Then she turned off the TV. ÓSo, is that for meØÔ
        ÓOh ... yeah,Ô I said, handing her the gift. ÓMerry Christmas.Ô Again, I sounded like I was apologizing for something. It was annoying.
        ÓYours is still under the tree,Ô she said. I hadnÒt even noticed a tree downstairs.
        She opened up her package, to reveal a NeuroToxin jacket.
        ÓItÒs from their Bubonic Nights tour. Look×Jaxon BealeÒs autograph is embroidered on the sleeve.Ô
        ÓI noticed,Ô Kjersten said. ÓI love Jaxon Beale!Ô
        In case youÒve 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 didnÒtØ 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.
        ÓYou want to do something todayØÒ she asked.
        To be honest, I hadnÒt given the day much thought beyond handing her the jacket. ÓSure,Ô I said. ÓHow about a movieØÔ
        ÓSomething funny,Ô she said. ÓLetÒs make it something funny.Ô
        ÓWhy donÒt you pick×thereÒs a whole bunch of new movies at the Mondoplex.Ô Then I added, ÓYou can even drive. IÒm over that whole macho thing about riding shotgun with my girlfriend.Ô
        This was, I realized, the first time I used the word ÓgirlfriendÔ with her. I watched to see if her reaction would be positive, negative, or neutral. It was negative, but not because of the word Ógirlfriend.Ô Her problem was with the word Ódrive.Ô
        ÓWe canÒt drive. My dad borrowed my car this morning.Ô
        I wondered if he had borrowed it to go gambling, but decided not to ask. ÓYour mom could drive us ...Ô
        ÓMy momÒs spending the holiday with family in Sweden, and she parked her car at the airport.Ô
        Why, I wondered, would she choose to pay for airport parking instead of just leaving her car for her husband to useØ 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.
        ÓSweden, huhØÔ I said. ÓSounds like fun×why didnÒt you go with herØÔ
        ÓItÒs Sweden, and itÒs winter×isnÒt that reason enoughØÔ
        ÓI bet thereÒd be snow.Ô
        ÓSnow, and ice, and eighteen hours of darkness. I hate it.Ô
        ÓWell, IÒm sure itÒs a whole lot better than Christmas in Brooklyn.Ô She shrugged gloomily, so I tried a different tack. ÓWell, IÒm glad you didnÒt go, because now we can see each other all vacation.Ô
        That made her smile, and it wasnÒt 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, itÒs 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 girlÒs shoulder, especially if sheÒs taller than you. ItÒs better just to hold hands.

2. While holding hands, you canÒt manage both a tub of popcorn and a drink. One of them is bound to spill. Pray itÒs 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 youÒll be ready to kill long before the credits roll.
        As for the movie itself, it wasnÒt 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 IÒd see with her. It wasnÒt even one of the better lowbrow movies either. I mean, IÒve 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 TiggorÒs Óintelligence,Ô 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 didnÒt 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.
        ÓDid you like the movieØÔ she asked.
        ÓIt was all right, I guess.Ô
        ÓI thought it was funny,Ô she said.
        ÒYeah.Ô I searched for something worth saying. ÓWhen the fat guy got stuck in the Jell-O-filled swimming pool naked, that was funny.Ô
        ÒYou didnÒt like it,Ô she said, reading right through me.
        ÓWell, itÒs just that... I donÒt know . . . youÒre on the debate team and everything. I thought youÒd want to see a movie that would, uh ... broaden my horizons.Ô
        ÓIÒm happy with your horizons just where they are.Ô
        I should have felt good about that. After all, it was unconditional acceptance from my girlfriend . . . but like GunnarÒs Óacceptance,Ô 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 meØ
        Yeah, yeah, I know, guys arenÒt supposed to think about stuff like that. I should be happy that IÒm 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.
        KjerstenÒs car was in the driveway when we got home, which meant her father was there. I would have gone in, but Kjersten didnÒt 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. ÓYou can open it when you get home,Ô she said. ÓI hope youÒll like it.Ô
        And from inside I heard Gunnar shout, ÓItÒs a skateboard.Ô
        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 doØ She made sure the wreath was hung firmly on the nail, and pretended it hadnÒt happened. ÓSee you tomorrowØÔ she said.
        ÓYeah ... Yeah, sure, see you tomorrow.Ô
        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 youÒd want in a skateboard, except for one thing. I didnÒt want a skateboard.
        See, thereÒs a time for everything in life×and everyoneÒs clock is different. There are guys who use skateboards right up until they get their license×after all, itÒs a useful mode of transportation. Then there are guys like Skaterdud, to whom skateboarding is like a religion, and theyÒll do it all their lives. IÒm sure the Dud wonÒt just fall off that aircraft carrier, heÒll 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, itÒs 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 awayØ Is it easier to believe that itÒs the end of everything rather than face it, and start carving tombstones like GunnarØ Or maybe you just go into full retreat, like Kjersten×who wasnÒt 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 Óthings were so much simpler then.Ô
        Lexie had been right. Kjersten was dating Óthe ideaÔ of me.
        Could I be what Kjersten neededØ Did I want to beØ As I sat there running my hands along the edge of the skateboard, I realized that the Umlaut can of worms was a big old industrial drum, and I was already inside, eating worms left and right.
        What the Umlauts 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 Óthe idea of meÔ as much as possible for her. I couldnÒt 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.

15. Mona-Mona-Bo-Bona, Bonano-Fano-Fo-Fona



        ÓHey, Kjersten×I can play ØThe Star-Spangled BannerÒ in armpit farts; wanna seeØÔ ÓAntsy, youÒre so funny!Ô


***
        ThereÒs something to be said for immaturity×acting your shoe size instead of your age, although in my case theyÒre starting to get close. Once I gave in to it, it was fun. Dumb jokes, bathroom humor, pretending to care about stuff I gave up in middle school... who could have known dating an older woman could be like thisØ


***
        ÓThis is just, like, the coolest video game, Kjersten. YouÒre driving a killer Winnebago, and everyone you run over becomes a soul trapped in your motor home. IsnÒt it totally greatØÔ
        ÒYou play, Antsy. IÒll just watch.Ô
        I was KjerstenÒs escape. It made her feel good, and that made me feel good. I even learned to make myself get red in the face and look all embarrassed, when I actually wasnÒt.


***
        ÓSee these scabs, like, on my elbows and stuffØ TheyÒre from skateboarding. IÒve been, /know, like, practicing my varial kick-flip and stuff. Like.Ô
        ÓSo the skateboard I got you is a good oneØÔ
        ÓItÒs the best!Ô


***
        The problem with stunting you own growth like that, though, is that it doesnÒt leave you with anything lasting. ItÒs like eating cotton candy all day, although not quite as bad on your teeth. ItÒs also exhausting. After a day with Kjersten, IÒd just want to go home and read a newspaper or something×or even bus tables at the restaurant, just to gain back some basic level of age appropriateness. Unfortunately, I was still banned from the restaurant, and I didnÒt know if IÒd ever be allowed back.
        ÓWhatÒs with youØÔ Mom asked. I had just spent an energy-intensive day with Kjersten at the arcade and was now lying lumplike on the sofa, staring at the stock-market quotes scrolling on the financial network.
        ÓNothing,Ô I answered, so Christina took it upon herself to elaborate.
        ÓHis girlfriend is using him to recapture her lost youth.Ô
        This confused Mom. ÓWhat do you mean Ølost youthÒØ SheÒs only sixteen!Ô
        ÓYou know how it is,Ô Christina says. ÓEverything starts younger and younger these days.Ô
        ÓItÒs not a problem,Ô I told her. ÓI know what IÒm doing.Ô
        Mom shook her head. ÓLost youth! What is she gonna have you doØ Wear diapersØÔ
        ÒYeah, and she burps me real good, too,Ô I said.
        Mom threw her hands up as she left the room. ÓI didnÒt just hear that.Ô


***
        My return to school after the holidays was met with much congratulations and pats on the back from friends and kids I didnÒt even know. At first I thought it was kudos for being publicly seen dating Kjersten, but it was all because of the New York Post. Dumping water on a senator and getting front-page exposure made me a school hero, but it was not the kind of fame I wanted.
        ÓI could say ØI knew you when,ÒÔ Howie told me, as if this would launch me into full-on celebrity status. ÓHave you gotten any talk-show invitationsØÔ
        For a moment I imagined myself holding a pitcher of ice water next to Clicking Raoul on a talk show, but I shook the image away before it could do any damage.
        People had no idea how the ice-water incident had affected my family. How it strained my father and the restaurant. I just wanted it to go away×why couldnÒt anyone understand thatØ
        I also wanted GunnarÒs rally to go away. A fake rally about fake time, when real time was ticking away. Twenty-three days until he and his family had to be out. Were they even doing anything about itØ
        It actually snowed on Tuesday night×the first snow of the winter, and I hoped weÒd have a snow day, postponing or even canceling the rally on Wednesday night. But who was I kiddingØ ThereÒs got to be woolly mammoth walking down the street before the New York City schools call a snow day.
        Gunnar came up to me at my locker on Wednesday morning. Considering the looming foreclosure, I decided not to take my frustration out on him×even if he was at the root of it.
        ÓWhat are you going to say at the rally tonightØÔ he asked.
        ÓI donÒt know,Ô I told him. ÓWhat do you think I should sayØÔ
        ÓYouÒre not going to ruin it, are youØÔ
        Did he really think I would tell everyone the truth nowØ How could IØ I was like his partner in crime now×an accomplice. The only way to make this go away was to go through with it. Who knows, maybe as wrong as it was, it was the right thing to do. DidnÒt some famous dead artist say that everyone gets fifteen minutes of fameØ Who was I to stand in the way of GunnarÒsØ
        ÓMaybe I oughta turn the whole thing into a cash collection for your mortgage,Ô I told him. I donÒt know whether he thought I was serious or just being sarcastic. ThatÒs okay, because I didnÒt know either.
        ÓToo late for that,Ô he said. ÓKnowing my father, the money wouldnÒt go to the mortgage anyway.Ô
        ÓDo your parents know about this rallyØ Do they have any idea how far this Dr. G thing has goneØÔ
        Gunnar shrugged. Clearly they had no idea. ÓMy mom got snowed in in Stockholm. She wonÒt be back until late tonight. And my dad ... well, I guess he cares more about his cards than his kids.Ô
        I was really starting to understand GunnarÒs phantom illness. The Umlauts were losing everything they owned; GunnarÒs father was gambling away whatever was left and had practically abandoned his wife and kids in the process. In some ways it was probably easier for Gunnar to think he was dying than have to face all that. I thought about my father and how everything had gotten so frayed between us×but as bad as things were, deep down I knew it would all eventually blow over. We would recover. But there was no promise of recovery between Gunnar and his father. They were like the Roadkyll Raccoon danglers. Rescue was a slim hope, at best.
        ÓIÒm sure your father cares about you,Ô I told Gunnar. ÓHeÒs just messed up.Ô
        ÓHe doesnÒt have a right to be messed up until he takes care of the messes heÒs already made.Ô
        I didnÒt know how to answer that, so instead I answered his original question.
        ÓIÒm going to give a speech about Pulmonary Monoxic Systemia, and thank everyone for their time donations. IÒm going to say decent things about you. Then IÒm going to call you up to the podium.Ô
        ÓMeØÔ
        ÓItÒs your life. That thermometerÒs measuring years for you. YouÒre the one who has to thank people×make them feel good about what theyÒve done.Ô
        Gunnar couldnÒt look at me. He looked down, tapped the edge of my locker door with his foot. Then he said, ÓDr. G isnÒt always wrong.Ô
        ÓWell... I hope heÒs wrong this time, because as screwed up as this whole thing is, I donÒt want you to die.Ô
        The bell rang, but Gunnar didnÒt leave yet. He hung around for a good ten seconds, then said, ÓThanks, Antsy,Ô and hurried off to class.


***
        The rally was at six, on account of it couldnÒt 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 wouldnÒt 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 IÒd 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.
        ÓGet dressed, weÒre picking up Aunt Mona at the airport.Ô
        I just stood there with a towel around me and a sinkhole opening beneath my feet.
        ÓDonÒt give me that look,Ô she said. ÓHer flight arrives in less than an hour.Ô I could tell Mom was already at the end of her rope, and the visit hadnÒt even started. ÓPlease, Antsy, donÒt make this any harder than it needs to be.Ô
        ÓBut... but I got something I gotta do!Ô
        ÓIt can wait.Ô
        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.
        ÓYou donÒt understand . . . IÒm giving a speech tonight for that friend of mine.Ô And this next part I had to force out, because it wasnÒt coming by itself. ÓThe one whoÒs dying.Ô
        That gave her a momentÒs pause. ØYouÒre giving a speechØÔ
        ÒYeah. The district superintendent is going to be there and everything.Ô
        ÓWhy is this the first weÒre hearing about thisØÔ
        ÓWell, maybe if you two werenÒt at the restaurant all the time, you would have heard.Ô I didnÒt mean that, but I chose to play the guilt card because this was serious, and I had to use every weapon at my disposal.
        ÓWhat time does it startØÔ she asked.
        ÓSix.Ô
        ÓWell, if youÒre giving a speech, weÒll all want to be there. We can pick up your aunt and make it back by six.Ô
        ÒYou canÒt be serious! LaGuardia Airport at this time of dayØ In this weatherØ WeÒll be lucky if weÒre back for the Fourth of July!Ô
        But Mom wasnÒt caving. ÓDonÒt worry×your father knows shortcuts. Now go put on that shirt Aunt Mona bought you.Ô
        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 coneØ My mouth hung open, something sounding like Morse code came out, and Mom said:
        ÓJust do it,Ô and she went downstairs to give the living room a final dusting.


***
        I stewed all the way to LaGuardia.
        ÓStop pouting,Ô 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 didnÒt want to be a no-show for Gunnar. All could be lost today if we didnÒt make it back. My good standing with the principal, my self-respect×even Kjersten, who did not approve of GunnarÒs rally but would approve even less of me skipping out on him. And would Mona take the fall for thisØ Would my parentsØ 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.
        ÓWhy do we all have to be at the airportØÔ I had said just before we left the house. ÓIf the rest of you are there, why do I have to goØÔ
        ÓBecause IÒm asking you to,Ô was my fatherÒs response.
        And as unreasonable as that was, I knew I had to go. Maybe GunnarÒs dad has forfeited his right to be respected×but I still had to respect my fatherÒs 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.
        ÓUgh! Where were youØ IÒve been here for ten minutes!Ô
        ÓCouldnÒt find parking,Ô Dad said, kissing her cheek. ÓYour luggage come yetØÔ
        ÓYou know LaGuardia. Ugh! IÒll be lucky if it comes at all.Ô She looked at me and nodded approvingly. ÓI see youÒre wearing that shirt I got you. ItÒs European, you know. I got it especially for you×the bright colors are supposed to make you look muscular.Ô
        Out of the corner of my eye I saw Christina grin, and I sniffed loudly to remind her she stunk of MonaÒs 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 horn: to make it to the rally.
        Air travel was not a good thing for my auntÒs mood. Our car ride was a veritable feast of unpleasantness×but rather than going through everything Mona said on the car ride, IÒll offer you a menu of choice selections.
        Mona
        An all-you-can-stomach experience.
        ×APPETIZERS×
        ÓI see youÒve still got the same old car.
        Do they even make this model anymoreØÔ
        ÓWhere are you taking usØ You never had a sense of direction, Joe. Even as a boy heÒd get lost on his bicycle and IÒd have to find him.Ô
        ÓYou should smile more, Angela.
        Maybe then your children might.Ô
        ×WHINE LIST×
        ÓUgh! IÒm an icicle here×this heater gives no heat!Ô
        ÓToxic mold in your basementØ Ugh!
        You should have had the whole house torn down.Ô
        ÓCanÒt we stop and get something to drinkØ IÒm getting nauseous from the fumes. Ugh!Ô[(I suggested a pitcher of water, but Mom reached over Christina and smacked me.)]
        ×SOUPS AND STEWS×
        ÓTrafficØ You donÒt know traffic until youÒve lived in Chicago.
        Your traffic is nothing compared to mine.Ô
        ÓStressØ You donÒt know stress until youÒve run a perfume company. Your stress is nothing compared to what I go through.Ô ÓWeatherØ You donÒt know how easy you have it!
        Come to Chicago if you want to know what real weather is.Ô
        ×MAIN COURSE×
        (Served scalding hot, and taken with a grain of salt)
        ÓYouÒre taking me to Paris, CapisceØ for dinnerØ
        I thought we were going to a regular restaurant.Ô
        ÓItÒs on Avenue TØ CouldnÒt you find a better locationØ
        Well, I suppose youÒll do better in a neighborhood with low expectations.Ô
        ÓOnce I move to New York, IÒll be able to give you pointers on the right way to run a business.[(At this point dad reached to the dashboard, and for the briefest insane moment, I thought he might be reaching for an ejection button that would send aunt Mona flying through the roof×but he was just turning on the radio.)]
        ×LIGHTER SELECTIONS×
        for the calorie-conscious
        ÓAngela, dear×IÒll order Nutri-plan diet meals for you.
        You donÒt have to thank me, itÒs my treat.Ô
        ÓChristina, youÒre very attractive, for a girl of your build.Ô
        ÓOne word, Joe: ØLiposuction.ÒÔ
        ×DESSERT×
        ÓWhatÒs this about stopping at a schoolØÔ
        ÓHow long is this going to takeØÔ
        ÓI havenÒt eaten all day!Ô
        ÓCan I just wait in the carØÔ
        ÓOn second thought, no. In this neighborhood IÒll probably get mugged.Ô


***
        We walked into the rally five minutes late, to find an auditorium packed, standing room only. My parents were completely bewildered. They knew IÒd been doing ÓsomethingÔ for Gunnar, but I donÒt think they had any idea what it was, or how big it had become. They had never even seen my time contracts.
        ÓSome turnout,Ô said Dad.
        ÓAnd on a school night,Ô said Mom.
        ÓThis is how flu epidemics start,Ô said Mona, zeroing in on one kid with a hacking cough.
        ÓWhatÒs that up onstageØÔ my mom asked, pointing at the big cardboard thermometer.
        ÓItÒs measuring all the time I collected for Gunnar.Ô
        ÓOh,Ô 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 wouldnÒt 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 Órelative humidity.Ô
        But it didnÒt 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 ÓBlack WednesdayÔ



        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.
        ÓThis is very impressive,Ô Mom said.
        ÓUgh,Ô said Mona. ÓWhat is this, EcuadorØ Do we need all this heatØÔ
        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 MonaÒs, 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.
        ÓAntsy! Where have you beenØÔ It was Neena Wexler, Fresh-man Class President. ÓAirport.Ô
        Neena gave a nod of hello to my family. Mona fanned herself in response to point out the heat issue.
        ÓSorry itÒs so hot,Ô Neena said, Óbut itÒs actually on purpose. We have a whole thermometer motif.Ô
        ÓJust remember to enunciate,Ô Aunt Mona advised me. ÓIÒm sure youÒll do fine even with that speech impediment.Ô She was referring to my apparent inability to pronounce her name ÓMona.Ô
        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.
        ÓDonÒt mind your father,Ô Mom said. ÓHeÒs just concerned because he left Barry in charge of the restaurant tonight.Ô Barry is his assistant manager, who gets overwhelmed if thereÒs too many salad orders.
        With the clock ticking, Neena grabbed my wrist and dragged me toward the stage.
        ÓWeÒre all proud of you,Ô 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 GunnarÒs 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 wasnÒt 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.
        ÓInteresting shirt,Ô Gunnar said.
        ÓTrue color coordination lies within,ÒÔ I told him. ÓTommy FreakinÒ Hilfiger.Ô If Gunnar could do it, then so could I.
        ÓHey, Antsy,Ô someone in the audience shouted. ÓYou gonna baptize anyone todayØÔ
        People laughed. I couldnÒt 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. ÓWelcome to our rally in support of our classmate and friend Gunnar Umlaut.
        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.
        ÓYouÒre not the homecoming king,Ô I whispered to him. ÓStop waving already.Ô
        He spoke back to me through a gritted-teeth smile, like a ventriloquist. ÓIt would be suspicious to ignore the cheers.Ô
        Neena continued. ÓItÒs your heartfelt donations that have made this evening possible.Ô
        I pulled my speech out of my pocket, ready to give it, but Gunnar handed me a program, printed up special for the rally. ÓIÒd put that speech away for a while if I were you,Ô he said.
        Neena, who IÒm 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 ÓSpeech by Anthony BonanoÔ was toward the bottom of page four. I groaned, and Neena said:
        ÓLetÒs all rise for the national anthem, as performed by our jazz choir.Ô
        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 ÓThe Star-Spangled Banner,Ô then someone in the audience yelled, ÓPlay ball!Ô 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. ÓLet me just tell you about some of the many student organizations, clubs, and activities we have on our exceptional campus ...Ô
        Way in the back I could see Aunt MonaÒs 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.
        ÓIÒm sorry you have to go through this,Ô Gunnar said, Óbut look at how happy everyone is. They all feel like theyÒve done a good deed just by being here.Ô
        ÓIt doesnÒt get you off the hook,Ô I reminded him.
        Principal Sinclair sat down, and Neena took the podium again. ÓAnd now weÒre happy to present a short film made by our very own Ira Goldfarb.Ô
        ÓIraØÔ 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 didnÒt 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 ÓWind Beneath my WingsÔ and ÓWe Are the Champions.Ô 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 was over, the lights came up, and Neena rose to the podium once more. ÓWasnÒt that wonderfulØÔ she asked, not expecting a response, although some bozo yelled that he wet his pants. ÓBut before we go on,Ô said Neena, ÓletÒs have a look at the thermometer.Ô She pulled the microphone from its holder and crossed to the thermometer, which stood taller than she did. ÓAs you can see our goal is fifty years. Right now, we only have forty-seven years and five months, but tonight weÒre going to reach our goal!Ô
        The audience applauded with questionable enthusiasm.
        ÓWho out there would like to help us reach our goal for GunnarØÔ
        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.
        ÓIsnÒt there anyone out there willing to give the tiniest amount of goodwill to GunnarØÔ urged Neena.
        Principal Sinclair took to the microphone. ÓCome on, people! I know for a fact that our students here are more generous than this!Ô 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.
        ÓOkay,Ô said Neena. ÓThat makes forty-eight years, even. WhoÒs nextØÔ
        I leaned over to her. ÓNeena,Ô I whispered, Óthis isnÒt a telethon, we donÒt have to reach the goal.Ô
        ÒYes! We! Do!Ô she snapped back in the harshest whisper IÒve ever heard. I looked to Principal Sinclair, but he was intimidated by her, too.
        No one was stepping forward, and I was beginning to wonder if maybe Neena might put the school into lockdown, and weÒd be there until morning. Then, from the back of the room, I heard, ÓOh, for goodnessÒ sake!Ô And my salvation came marching down the center aisle.
        My father!
        I could not have been more grateful as he made his way to the stage. After all I had put him through, here he was saving the day!
        Neena reached out to shake his hand, but his expression definitely lacked the spirit Neena was looking for, and she put her hand down.
        ÓHow much do you needØÔ he asked, getting right to business.
        ÓTwo years,Ô Nina answered.
        ÓYou got it. Where do I signØÔ
        I took a time contract and handed it to my father, showing what to fill in, and where to sign.
        ÓThank you, Dad,Ô I said. ÓReally.Ô
        ÓYour aunt is driving us crazy,Ô he told me. ÓIt was either this or a grudge match between her and your mother.Ô He wiped sweat from his brow, then signed the document. The principal signed as witness, and Neena snatched the paper, holding it up to the audience.
        ÓMr. Bonano has given us two fall years! WeÒve reached our goal!Ô And the crowd went wild, whooping and hollering at the prospect of moving on to page three.
        Dad shook GunnarÒs hand, turned to leave the stage .. . then he hesitated. He turned to me, wiping his forehead again. It was the first time that I noticed he was sweating a bit more than anyone else onstage. He looked pale, too, and it wasnÒt just the stage lights.
        ÓDadØÔ
        He waved me off. ÓIÒm fine.Ô
        Then he rubbed his chest, took a deep breath, and suddenly fell to one knee.
        ÓDad!Ô
        I was down there with him in an instant. A volley of gasps came from the audience, blending with the clatter of sleet on the windows.
        ÓJoe!Ô I hear my mother scream.
        ÓIÒm okay. ItÒs nothing. IÒm fine.Ô
        But now he went all the way down, on all fours. ÓI... I just need someone to help me up.Ô But instead of getting up, he kept going down. In a second he had rolled over and was flat on his back, struggling to breathe.
        And still my father insists that everythingÒs okay. I want to believe him. This is not happening, I tell myself. And if I say it enough, maybe IÒll believe it.
        From this moment on, nothing made proper sense. Everything was random shouts and disconnected images. Time fell apart.
        Mom is there holding his hand.
        MonaÒs on the stage, clutching her coat beside her, and gets pushed out of the way by the security guard who claims to know CPR, but doesnÒt seem too confident.
        A million cell phones dialing 911 all at once.
        ÓIÒm fine. IÒm fine. Oh God.Ô
        Gunnar standing next to Kjersten standing next to me, none of us able to do a damn thing.
        The guard counting, and doing chest compressions.
        The whole audience standing like itÒs the national anthem all over again.
        DadÒs not talking anymore.
        The squealing wheels of a gurney rolling down the aisle. How did they get here so fastØ How long has he been lying on that stageØ
        An oxygen mask, and his fingers feel so cold, and the crowd parts before us as the wheels squeal again, and me, Mom, Christina, and Mona are carried along in the wake of the gurney toward the auditorium door, where cold air rolls in, hitting the heat and making fog that rolls like ocean surf.
        And in the madness of this terrible moment, one voice in the crowd, loud and clear, pierces the panic. Once voice that says:
        ÓMy God! He gave two years, and he died!Ô
        I turn to seek out the owner of that voice. ÓSHUT UP!Ô I scream. ÓSHUT UP! HEÒS NOT DEAD!Ô If I found who said it, IÒd break him up so bad heÒd be joining us at the hospital, but IÒm pulled along too quickly in the gurneyÒs wake, out the door and into the wet night. HeÒs not dead. HeÒs not. Even as they load him into the ambulance, theyÒre talking to him, and heÒs nodding. Weakly, but heÒs nodding.
        We pile into our car to follow, leaving Gunnar, and Kjersten, and the thermometer and the crowd. Now thereÒs nothing but the sleet, and the cold, and the wail and flashing lights of the ambulance as we break every traffic law and run every red light to keep up with it, because we donÒt know which hospital theyÒre taking him to, so we canÒt lose the ambulance. We canÒt. We canÒt.

17. My Head Explodes Like Mount St. Helens, and IÒll Probably Be Picking Up the Pieces for Years



        Our lives get spent worrying about such pointless, stupid things. Does this girl like meØ Does this boy know I existØ Did I get an A, B, or CØ And will everyone laugh when they see my ugly shirtØ ItÒs amazing how quickly×how, in the smallest moment of time, all of that can implode into nothing, when the universe suddenly opens up, revealing itself with all these impossible depths and dizzying heights. YouÒre swept up into it, and as you look down, the perspective is terrifying. People look like ants from so far away.
        I understand hell now, and you donÒt have to leave this world to get there. You can get there just fine sitting in a hospital waiting room.


***
        Coney Island HospitalÒs emergency room didnÒt seem to have much to do with health. It seemed more like this sickly mix of bad luck, bad timing, and even worse news. My father got rushed in right away, and the rest of us were left to wait in the reception area, where people who werenÒt immediately dying waited for service like it was a deli counter.
        ÓDid they have to bring him hereØÔ says Aunt Mona. ÓWhatÒs wrong with Kings County, or MaimonidesØÔ
        There were a lot of people with bloody clothes, poorly bandaged wounds, and bloated, feverish faces×all hanging their hopes on a single overtired receptionist who was, in theory, calling names, although it was more than half an hour until I heard her call a single one. I tried to read a magazine, but couldnÒt focus. Christina played halfheartedly with a battered old Boggle game she got from a toy chest that smelled of small children. Mom seemed to be studying the pattern of the carpet.
        ÓWhy arenÒt they telling us anythingØÔ says Aunt Mona. ÓI donÒt like how they run this hospital.Ô
        There was a huge fish tank filled with fake coral rocks and a plastic diver all covered with green tank scum. There seemed to be only three fish in the giant tank, and IÒm thinking, If this place canÒt take care of their fish, what does it say about patient careØ
        ÓI donÒt know what this stain on this seat is,Ô says Aunt Mona, Óbut IÒm going to sit over there.Ô
        My phone rang. I didnÒt recognize the number, so I didnÒt pick up. But then it had been ringing a lot, and I hadnÒt picked up for anybody. Thinking of the phone reminded me of something.
        ÓYou gotta call Frankie,Ô I told Mom.
        Mom shook her head. ÓNot yet.Ô
        ÓYou gotta call Frankie!Ô I told her more forcefully.
        ÓIf I do, heÒll come driving all the way from Binghamton in the middle of the night in this weather at a hundred miles an hour! No thank you, I donÒt need two in the hospital! WeÒll call your brother in the morning.Ô
        I was about to protest×but then I got it. Even though I couldnÒt see the look in her eyes, I got it. You gather the whole family at a deathbed. So as long as FrankieÒs not here, itÒs not a deathbed, is itØ ItÒs the same reason she hadnÒt asked to talk to a priest.
        My phone rang again, and I finally turned it off. Did people think I would actually answer itØ As if their need to know was more important than my need not to talk about it.
        An hour later a doctor came out and asked for Mrs. Benini. I took no notice until Mom says, ÓDo you mean BonanoØÔ
        The doctor looked at his chart and corrected himself. ÓYes×Bonano.Ô
        Suddenly I think the heart attack might have spread to me. We all stand up.
        ÓMrs. Bonano,Ô the doctor said, Óyour husband has an acute blockage of the×"
        But thatÒs all I hear, because I get stuck on one word.
        Has.
        Present tense! ÓHasÔ means Óis,Ô not Ówas.Ô It means my fatherÒs alive. Never have I appreciated tense so completely. I swore IÒll never take tense for granted again.
        ÓHeÒs going to need emergency bypass surgery,Ô the doctor told us. ÓTriple bypass, actually.Ô The fact that they had a name for it was a good thing, I figured. If they knew what they had to do, then they could do it, but Mom covered her mouth and found a new wellspring of tears, so I knew this wasnÒt so good.
        ÓItÒs a long operation, but your husbandÒs a fighter,Ô the doctor said. ÓI have every hope that heÒll pull through.Ô And then he added, ÓThereÒs a chapel on the second floor, if youÒd like some privacy.Ô Which is not something you say to someone if you truly believe their loved one is going to pull through.
        The doctor said heÒd keep us posted, and disappeared through the double doors. Mom said nothing. Christina and I said nothing. But Aunt Mona said, ÓItÒs all that cholesterol in his diet. IÒve warned him for years. Our father, rest his soul, went the same way, but did Joe listenØÔ
        Back in eighth grade, I had a geology unit in science. We studied volcanoes. Some erupt predictably, spewing magma, and others just explode. The rock is so hot it actually becomes gas, and the blast is more powerful than a hydrogen bomb.
        ThatÒs the closest I can come to explaining what happened to me next. I could feel it coming the moment Aunt Mona opened her mouth, and I had no way to control it.
        Mom saw me about to blow. She tried to grab me, but I shook her off. There was no stopping this×not by her, not by anybody.
        ÓShut your freaking mouth!Ô I screamed. Everyone in the waiting room turned to me, but I didnÒt care. ÓShut your freaking mouth before I shut it for you!Ô Mona gaped, unable to speak as I looked her in the eye, refusing to look away. ØYou sit there and complain every day of your stupid life, passing judgment on everyone, and even now you wonÒt shut up!Ô
        And then I said it. I said the words that had been brewing inside since the moment my father went down on that stage.
        ÓIt should have been you.Ô
        She looked at me like I had plunged a dagger through her heart.
        ÓAnthony!Ô my mother said, losing all her wind with that single word.
        I kept Mona locked in my gaze, feeling as if my eyes could just burn her away. ÓIt should be you in that operating room. I wish it was you dying instead of him.Ô
        So now it was out. I meant it, she knew I meant it×everyone in the waiting room knew.
        And from somewhere beside me, I heard Christina, in a tiny voice say, ÓSo do I...Ô
        Suddenly it felt like there was no air in that room, and the walls had closed in. I had to escape. I donÒt even remember leaving. The next thing I knew I was in the parking garage, searching for our car, and I found it. I didnÒt have the keys, but Mom, in her panic, had forgotten to lock it. Good thing, too, because I was fully prepared to break a window. I almost wanted to.
        I sat in the car that smelled so strongly of Aunt MonaÒs perfume, and I pounded the dashboard. Mona was the one with all the anxiety. She was a human propeller churning up stress until everyone was drowning in it. Why couldnÒt it have been herØ WhyØ
        I was starting to cool down by the time my mom came, and sat in the car beside me.
        ÓNo lectures!Ô I yelled, even before she opened her mouth.
        ÓNo lectures,Ô she agreed quietly.
        We sat there for a while in silence, and when she finally did speak, she said, ÓAunt Mona decided it was best if she took a hotel room across the street from the hospital. That way she can be close.Ô Which meant she wouldnÒt be staying with us anymore. I wondered if IÒd ever see her again. I wondered if I cared.
        ÓGood,Ô I said. I might have cooled down, but it didnÒt change what I said, or the fact that I meant it. But then my mother said something I didnÒt see coming.
        ÓAnthony... donÒt you realize I was thinking the same thingØÔ
        I looked to her, not sure that I had heard her right. ÓWhatØÔ
        ÓFrom the moment I knew your father was having a heart attack, I had to fight to keep it out of my mind. ØIt should have been her, not Joe×it should have been her. .Ô Mom closed her eyes, and I could see her trying to force the worst of those god-awful feelings away. ÓBut honey, there are some things that must never be said out loud.Ô
        Knowing she was right just made me angrier. I gritted my teeth so hard I thought I might break them×and then whatØ WeÒd have dental bills on top of bypass.
        ÓIÒm not sorry.Ô
        Mom patted my arm. ÓThatÒs okay,Ô she said. ÓSomeday you will be, and you can deal with it then.Ô
        Somewhere in the garage a car alarm went off, echoing all around.
        ÓNo word from the doctorØÔ I asked.
        ÓNot yet. But thatÒs good.Ô
        I knew what she meant. It was a four-, maybe five-hour operation. ThereÒs only one reason it would end early.
        ÓIÒd better get back,Ô Mom said. ÓCome when youÒre ready. WeÒll be in the chapel.Ô And she left.
        My anger at the unfairness of it all still raged inside, but some of that anger was bouncing off of Mona and sticking to me. WasnÒt I the one who dumped that pitcher of water on Boswell, making life that much harder on my fatherØ WasnÒt I always talking back, creating problems, making things harder at homeØ Could I have been the one who pushed him one step too farØ
        And then I got to thinking about the time contracts, and how I, in a way, had been tempting fate×playing God. Was this my punishmentØ Was this, as they say, the wage of my sinØ
        My brain had already turned to cottage cheese, and now it was going funnier still. You can call it another volcanic burst, you can call it temporary insanity, you can call it whatever you like. All I know is that in my current dairy-brained state, the letters in my own mental Boggle game suddenly came together and started talking in tongues.
        Fact: My fatherÒs heart attack happened within moments of him signing a contract for two years of his life.
        Fact: It was my fault the contract even existed.
        Fact: There was a fat black binder filled with almost fifty years sitting in Gunnar UmlautÒs bedroom.
        ... but I could get those years back.
        Maybe if I got all those pages and brought them to my father×or better yet, brought them to the chapel and laid them down on the altar ... Did a hospital chapel have an altarØ If not, I would make one. IÒd take a table, and sprinkle it with holy water. IÒd renounce what I had done×truly renounce it, and those pages would be my bargain with God. Then, once that bargain had been struck, the morning would come, the operation would be a success, and I would still have a father.
        This wasnÒt just an answer, it felt like a vision! I could almost hear the gospel choir singing the hallelujahs.
        I left the car, my breath coming in fast puffs of steam in the midnight cold, and took to the street, searching for the nearest subway station.

18. Go Ahead... Tenderize My Meat.



        There were things I didnÒt know, which I didnÒt find out until much later×like what happened in the auditorium after my father was rushed out.
        My God×he gave two years of his life and he died!
        It hadnÒt occurred to me that others had heard that×and even though news of my fatherÒs death had been greatly exaggerated, it didnÒt matter. What mattered was the possibility that heÒd die. Just like my eruption at Aunt Mona, it was something everyone was thinking, but it was too dangerous to say aloud.
        In the awkward, uneasy moments after we had left, Principal Sinclair tried to get things back on track×the show must go on, and all. It was no use. The crowd was murmuring up a cloud of worry×not about my father, but about themselves. Then someone yelled, ÓHey, I want my month back,Ô and all eyes turned to Gunnar.
        In less than a minute, people were asking him, tugging at him, grabbing at him, demanding their time back×and when he didnÒt give it back right then and there, things started to get ugly. People were yelling, pushing one another, and then kids who didnÒt even care took this as their cue to make further mischief, by fighting, throwing stuff, and creating a general atmosphere of havoc. Mob mentality took over.
        Gunnar and Kjersten escaped through a back door, along with the superintendent, leaving poor Mr. Sinclair and a skeletal faculty desperately struggling to bring back sanity, like that was gonna happen. In the end, Wendell Tiggor led about twenty semihardened criminals and delinquent wannabes on a rampage through the school. The rest was history.
        But I didnÒt know any of this when I arrived at Gunnar and KjerstenÒs house at twelve-thirty in the morning.
        I rang the bell and knocked, rang and knocked, over and over until Mrs. Umlaut came to the door in a bathrobe. There was luggage just inside the door, and I knew she must have arrived home that evening. I didnÒt bother with pleasantries, I pushed right past her and bounded up the stairs.
        ÓWhat are you doingØ What do you wantØÔ she wailed, but I really didnÒt have time for explanations.
        GunnarÒs door was closed, but not locked. The one thing I had going for me tonight was unlocked doors. I found a light switch, flicked it on, and Gunnar sat up in bed, blinking, not entirely conscious yet.
        ÓWhere is itØÔ I demanded.
        ÓAntsyØ Wh-whatÒs going onØÔ ÓThe notebook. Where is itØ Answer me!Ô
        It took him a moment to process the question, then he glanced over at his desk. ÓItÒs there, but×"
        ThatÒs all I needed to know. I grabbed the notebook×and noticed right away that it felt way too light. I opened it up and saw that it was empty. The pages were all gone.
        ÓWhereÒs all the timeØ I have to have that time!Ô
        ÓYou canÒt!Ô Gunnar said.
        Wrong answer! I pulled him out of bed so sharply, I heard his T-shirt tear. ÓYouÒre giving them to me, and youÒre giving them to me now!Ô I never muscled other kids to get what I want, but right now I was willing to use every muscle in my body to get this.
        Behind me I heard Kjersten call my name, I heard their mother scream, and that pushed me all the more to push him. I slammed Gunnar hard against the wall. ÓGive them to me!Ô
        Then something hit me. Mrs. Umlaut had attacked me. She was armed, and swinging, wailing as she did. I felt the weapon connect with my back, the blow softened slightly by my jacket, but still it hurt. She swung it again, and this time I saw what it was. It was a meat tenderizer. A stainless-steel, square little mallet. She swung the kitchen utensil like the hammer of Thor and it connected with my shoulder right through my coat.
        ÓOw!Ô
        ÓYou stop this!Ô she screamed. ÓYou stop this now!Ô
        But I didnÒt stop. I didnÒt stop until Kjersten entered the battle, and with a single blow that bore the force of the dozen or so other Norse gods, her fist connected with my face and I went down.
        You donÒt know this kind of pain×and if you do, IÒm sorry.
        Had it been my nose, she would have broken it. Had it been my chin, my jaw would have to be wired together for months. But it was my eye.
        All those muscles that were, just an instant ago, ready to tear Gunnar limb from limb suddenly decided it was time to call it a night, and they all went limp. I didnÒt quite pass out, but I did find myself on the ground, with just enough strength to bring my hands to my eye, and cry out in pain.
        My left eye was swollen shut in seconds, and in the kind of humiliation beyond which there is only darkness, I allowed Kjersten to guide me downstairs and into the kitchen. I had just been beaten to a pulp by my girlfriend in a single blow. Social lives did not get any bleaker than this.
        ÓI had to do it,Ô she said as she prepared a bag of ice for me. ÓIf I didnÒt, my mother would have taken that meat tenderizer to your head, and knocked you silly.Ô
        ÓSilly works,Ô I mumbled. ÓBetter than where I was.Ô
        She seemed to understand, even without me telling her×after all, she was right there in the front row when my dad had the heart attack. I told her where things stood with my father, and she went out into the living room, explaining everything to her mother. She spoke in Swedish, which, I guess was the language of love in this family. I could see Mrs. Umlaut glance at me as they spoke. At first she looked highly suspicious, but her distrust eventually faded, and her motherly instincts returned.
        Gunnar joined me in the kitchen. It kind of surprised me on account of we now had a perp/victim relationship. He seemed unfazed by my unprovoked attack. Maybe because there were plenty of other things to faze him.
        ÓI donÒt think weÒre going to be a National Blue Ribbon school,Ô he said, and he explained to me the madness that ensued after my family and I had left the rally.
        ÓI couldnÒt give anyone back their months,Ô he said. ÓYou canÒt have them either. Because last week my dad found them, and burned them all in the fireplace.Ô
        And there they went, all my hopes of redemption up in smoke. Without those time contracts, I could not undo what I had done. But I had already regained enough of my senses to realize getting those pages would not help my father.
        Gunnar went on to tell me how his dad had officially left the minute his mom came home.
        ÓTheyÒre splitting up,Ô he told me.
        I almost started to say how that wasnÒt such a big deal, considering×but realized that I would sound just like Aunt Mona. TraumaØ You donÒt know from trauma until your fatherÒs had a heart attack. And theyÒre much worse in Chicago.
        I wouldnÒt invalidate his pain. Every problem is massive until something more massive comes along.
        In a few moments Mrs. Umlaut came in with Kjersten. Mercifully she did not have the meat tenderizer. Mrs. Umlaut sat beside me, far more sympathetic than when I pushed through the front door.
        ÓYour fatherØÔ she asked.
        ÓTheyÒre still working on him,Ô I said. ÓAt least they were when I left.Ô
        She nodded. Then she took my both my hands in hers, looked into my one useful eye, and then Mrs. Umlaut said something to me that I know I will remember for the rest of my life.
        ÓEither he will live, or he will die.Ô
        That was it. That was all. Yet suddenly everything came into clear focus. Either he will live, or he will die. Simple as that. All the drama, all the craziness, all the panic, didnÒt mean a thing. This was a gamble×a roll of the dice. I donÒt know why, but I took comfort from that. There were, after all, only two outcomes. I could not predict them, I could not control them. It was not in my hands. I had been afraid to say the word Ódie,Ô but now that it had been said, and with such strength and compassion, it held no power over me.
        For the first time all night, I found myself crying like there was no tomorrow×although I knew there would be a tomorrow. It might not be the tomorrow I wanted, but it would still be there.
        I could feel KjerstenÒs hand on my shoulder, and I let comfort come from all sides. Then, when my tears had gone dry, Mrs. Umlaut said, ÓCome, IÒll take you to the hospital.Ô


***
        When I got to the hospital, there were more familiar faces in the waiting area. Relatives we didnÒt get to see this holiday season, Barry from the restaurant, a couple of family friends×and in the middle of it all were Lexie and her grandfather. I went straight to Lexie. Moxie got up when he saw me, and so Lexie knew, even before someone called my name, that I was there.
        ÓWe came as soon as we heard,Ô she said. ÓWhere have you beenØÔ
        ÓLong story. Is there any newsØÔ
        ÓNot yet.Ô
        I looked around. Mona had come back, and Christina was asleep in her arms. I wondered if they had made up. Mona didnÒt look at me.
        Crawley, who never came out of his apartment unless he was kidnapped or pried out with a crowbar, came up to me. ÓAll expenses shall be covered,Ô he said. ÓEither way.Ô
        For a second I felt like getting angry at that, but I had had enough anger for one evening. ÓThatÒs okay,Ô I told him. ÓWe donÒt want your money.Ô
        ÓBut youÒll take it,Ô he said, and then added with more emotion than IÒd ever seen in him before, Óbecause thatÒs what I have to give.Ô
        I nodded a quiet acceptance.
        ÓYour motherÒs up in the chapel,Ô Lexie said.
        I gave a quick greeting to relatives and friends, then went to find her.


***
        The place wasnÒt much of a chapel×there were only four rows, and the pews seemed too comfortable to be effective. There was a small stained-glass panel, backlit with fluorescent lights. There was no cross on account of it was a spiritual multipurpose room, that had to be used by people of all religious symbols. The chapelÒs best feature was a huge bookshelf stocked with Bibles and holy books of all shapes and sizes, so nobody got left out. Old Testament, New Testament, red testament, blue testament. This one has a little star×see how many faiths there are. (This is the moment I realized how exhausted I really was.)
        Mom was alone in the room, kneeling in the second row. It was so like her to take the second row even when she was alone in the room.
        ÓDid you fall asleep in the carØÔ Mom asked, without turning around to see me.
        ÓHow did you know it was meØÔ
        ÓI can always tell when you need a shower,Ô she told me. Between her and Lexie, who needed sightØ At least if she didnÒt look at me too closely, she wouldnÒt see my swollen eye.
        ÓCome pray with me, Anthony.Ô
        And so I did. I knelt beside her, joining her×and as I did, maybe for the first time in my life, I understood it. Not so much the words as the whole idea of prayer itself.
        IÒll never really know if prayer changes the outcome of things. Lots of people believe it does. I know IÒd like to believe it, but thereÒs no guarantee. Some people pray and their prayers are rewarded×they walk away convinced that their prayers were answered. Others pray and they get refused. Sometimes they lose their faith, all because they lost the roll of the dice.
        That night, as I prayed, I wasnÒt praying for my own wants and needs. I prayed for my father, and for my mother, I prayed for my whole family. Not because I was supposed to×not because I was afraid of what would happen if I didnÒt. I was doing it because I truly wanted to do it with all my heart, and believe it or not, for the first time ever, I didnÒt want it to end.
        ThatÒs when I realized×
        ×and excuse me for having a whole immaculate Sunday-school moment here, but I gotta milk it since they donÒt come that often×
        ×thatÒs when I realized that prayer isnÒt for God. After all, He doesnÒt need it. HeÒs out there, or in there, or sitting up there in His firmament, whatever that is, all-knowing and all-powerful, rightØ He doesnÒt need us repeating words week after week in His face. If HeÒs there, sure, IÒll bet HeÒs listening, but it doesnÒt change Him, one way or the other.
        Instead, weÒre the ones who are changed by it.
        I donÒt know whether thatÒs true, or whether I was just delirious from lack of sleep ... but if it is true, what an amazing gift that is!


***
        I let my mother decide when it was time to stop. Like I said, I could have just gone on and on. I think she knew that. I think she liked that. Then I think she started to worry that I might become a priest. This wasnÒt a worry of mine.
        It was still the middle of the night. Three-thirty, and no word. Mom looked at me, and seemed to notice my swollen face for the first time, but chose not to ask. Instead she said, ÓI think you were right. Maybe I should call Frankie now.Ô
        She took out her phone and called. When it connected, the sheer look of horror on my motherÒs face even before she said a word got me scared, too.
        ÓWhatØ What is itØÔ
        But in a moment her terror resolved into something else I couldnÒt quite read. ÓHere,Ô she said. ÓListen to the message.Ô
        I took the phone just as the message started to repeat.
        ÓHello. YouÒve reached the Kings County Morgue. Our offices are closed now, but if this is a morgue-related emergency, please dial zero. Otherwise please call back during normal business hours.Ô
        I looked at her, gaping and shaking my head. This was my doing. Just like I said, I had programmed the morgue into her speed dial as a joke, and I must have programmed it over FrankieÒs number. What stinking, lousy timing.
        ÓIÒm sorry,Ô I said. ÓIÒm so, so, sorry.Ô
        My eyes started to well up, because right here, right now, it almost seemed like a bad omen, and she was getting all choked up, too. She turned away. Then I heard her give a little hiccup, and then another, and when she turned back, I could see that in the middle of tears, she had started laughing.
        ÓYou rotten, rotten kid.Ô
        And then I was laughing, too. I put my arms around her and held her, and both of us stood there laughing, and crying, laughing and crying like a couple of nutjobs, until the doctor came in, and cleared his throat to get our attention. Maybe he understood what we were feeling, maybe he didnÒt. Maybe heÒd seen everything. He started to speak before we had the chance to brace ourselves.
        ÓHe made it through the operation,Ô he said, Óbut the next twenty-four hours are crucial.Ô
        We relaxed just the slightest bit, and Mom finally got to call Frankie instead of the morgue.

19. I Love You, YouÒre an Idiot, Now LetÒs All Go Home



        My father almost died again the next day, but he didnÒt. Instead he started to get better. By Friday, they moved him out of intensive care, and by Saturday, he was bored. He tried to squeeze news out of my mom about the restaurant, but all she would say was, ÓItÒs there,Ô and she forbade anyone else to talk about it, for fear that talking business would send my father back into cardiac arrest.
        With my dad on the mend, and more than enough people doting on him, my thoughts drifted to Kjersten and Gunnar. I went to visit on Sunday morning, to see how they were handling their own hardships, and give whatever support I could. The Christmas wreath was gone from their door, and the foreclosure notice glared out for the whole world to see.
        ÓGood riddance,Ô I heard one beer-bellied neighbor say to another as I walked down the block toward their house. ÓAfter what they did to our yards, let Øem go back where they came from. FreakinÒ foreigners.Ô
        I turned to the man. ÓNo, actually I was the one who did that to your yards, and I ainÒt going nowhere. You gonna do something about itØÔ
        He puffed on a cigarette. ÓWhy donÒt you just move along,Ô he said from behind the safety of his little waist-high wrought-iron fence.
        ÓLucky you got that fence between us,Ô I said. ÓOtherwise I might have to go samurai on your ass.Ô I have to say thereÒs nothing more satisfying than lip delivered to those who deserve it.
        Mrs. Umlaut answered the door, and pulled me in like she was pulling me out of a blizzard instead of a clear winter day. She barely allowed Kjersten to hug me before she dragged me into the kitchen, practically buried me in French toast, and had me tell her all about my dadÒs condition. Now that I had fought various members of the Umlaut household and had been struck repeatedly by a blunt object, I guess that made me like family.
        I went upstairs to find Gunnar in his room, watching a black-and-white foreign film called The Seventh Seal.
        ÓItÒs by Ingmar Bergman, patron saint of all things Swedish,Ô he said. ÓItÒs about a chess game with death.Ô
        ÓOf course it is,Ô I said. ÓWhat else would you be watchingØÔ I sat down at his desk chair. There was dust on his desk, as if he hadnÒt done homework for weeks.
        ÓWhatÒs that thing the Grim Reaper holds, anywayØÔ I asked.
        ÓItÒs called a scythe,Ô Gunnar said. ÓItÒs what people used to use to harvest grain.Ô ÓSo does modern death drive a combineØÔ
        Gunnar chuckled, but only slightly.
        We watched the film for a few minutes. It was a scene where the main character was looking out of a high window, supposedly facing the horizon of his own mortality, and it got me thinking about the guy who fell from the Roadkyll Raccoon balloon on Thanksgiving. I wondered if he, like the guy in the film, saw the Grim Reaper waiting for him.
        No one likes the Grim Reaper. HeÒs like that tax auditor who came to our house a couple of years ago. HeÒs just doing his job, but everyone hates his guts on principle. If there really is such a guy and he comes for me someday, I promised myself IÒd offer him cookies and milk, like little kids do for Santa Claus. Then maybe at least heÒll put in a good word for me. Bribing Death never hurts.
        ÓItÒs good that youÒre reconnecting with your roots,Ô I told him. ÓI should watch more Italian films.Ô
        He turned off the TV. ÓI donÒt need to watch this,Ô he said. ÓI know the ending. Death wins.Ô
        I shrugged. ÓDoesnÒt mean you gotta go carving tombstones.Ô
        Gunnar tossed the remote on his desk. ÓIÒm done with that.Ô He flexed his fingers. ÓI think maybe it gave me carpal tunnel.Ô
        He looked at his hand for a while, and although his gaze never left his fingers, I know his thoughts went far away.
        ÓMy fatherÒs at the casino again,Ô Gunnar said. ÓHe hasnÒt found a place to live yet, so I guess thatÒs where heÒs staying until he does. Maybe heÒll just set up a cot underneath one of the roulette wheels. I really donÒt care.Ô
        That, I knew, was a lie. Keep in mind that I had almost lost my father a few days before, so I knew what Gunnar was going through. It was in a different way, but the concept was basically the same. Reapers come in all shapes and sizes. And they donÒt always clear-cut the field with their scythes×sometimes they just leave crop circles.
        I really donÒt care, Gunnar had said×and all at once I realized that Gunnar was finally, finally in denial. For him this was the best thing that could happen, and it gave me an idea.
        ÓI know theyÒre taking away your house,Ô I said to him, Óbut do you think you guys can squeeze out enough money to fill your momÒs car with gasØÔ
        Even if the answer was no, I knew that I had enough money if they didnÒt.
        When someoneÒs addicted, they have these things called interventions. I know about them because my parents had to intervene for one of my dadÒs high school buddies who got addicted to some designer drug. Like drugs ainÒt bad enough, they got designers involved now. Basically everyone the guy knew sat him down in a room, told him they loved him and that he was a freakinÒ moron. Love and humiliation×itÒs a powerful combination×and it probably saved his life.
        ThatÒs what I thought weÒd have with Mr. Umlaut×a feel-good, huggy-feely intervention. But it didnÒt quite turn out that way.
        The Anawana Tribal Hotel and Casino was located deep in the Catskill Mountains, on the grounds of an old summer camp, proving that times changed. Old crumbling cabins, yellow and brown, could still be seen from the parking structure. The place boasted a riverboat that, for a few dollars more, would tool around Anawana Lake while you gambled.
        The hotelÒs main casino was patrolled by security, but I guess Kjersten, Gunnar, and I looked old enough to pass for gambling age×or at least old enough to be ignored for a while, because they didnÒt stop us from going into the casino. Kjersten was quiet, steeling herself for the ambush, which is pretty much what this would be.
        ÓDo you really think this will make a differenceØÔ she asked me.
        I had no idea, but the fact that she asked at all meant that she still had hope. She held my hand firmly, and it occurred to me that I was no longer her gateway to a younger, simpler time. In spite of our age difference, sheÒd never see me as ÓyoungerÔ again. And yet still, she was holding my hand.
        We found Mr. Umlaut playing craps. Even before he saw us, I could tell by the look on his face, and the circles under his eyes, that this was not going to be a heartwarming Hallmark moment.
        He was throwing the dice, and apparently doing well. Adrenaline was high among the gamblers at the table around him.
        ÓDadØÔ said Gunnar. He had to say it again to get his attention. ÓDadØÔ
        With the dice still in his fist, he saw us, and it was like he was coming out of a dream. ÓGunnarØ KjerstenØÔ Then he saw me, and glared at me like their presence here was all my fault, which it was.
        ÓSir,Ô said the craps guy, quickly sizing up the situation, Óyour children canÒt be here.Ô
        ÓI know.Ô Mr. Umlaut threw the dice anyway. I donÒt know much about craps, but apparently eleven was good. The other gamblers roared.
        ÓYou shouldnÒt be here,Ô Mr. Umlaut said to us. ÓYour mother isnÒt here, is sheØÔ
        ÓJust us, Daddy,Ô said Kjersten gently.
        ÓYou should go home.Ô
        The craps guy handed him the dice, but was reluctant about it. Mr. Umlaut shook the dice in his hand while the others standing around the table waited anxiously. Realizing we werenÒt going to simply disappear, Mr. Umlaut said, ÓGo wait for me in the lobby.Ô Then he hurled the dice again. Nine. This time only a few of the gamblers were happy.
        ÓSir, IÒm afraid I must insist,Ô the craps guy said, and pointed to us.
        In turn, Mr. Umlaut pointed to the lobby. ØYou heard the croupier!Ô Which sounded a whole lot classier than Ócraps guy.Ô It makes you wonder why they havenÒt come up with a better name for craps. Croups, maybe.
        By now the suit who managed the whole bank of craps tables came over. This guyÒs title I knew. He was the pit boss. The croupierÒs croupier. ÓIs there a problem hereØÔ the pit boss asked.
        ÓNo,Ô said Mr. Umlaut. Then he whispered to Gunnar and Kjersten, ÓLeave the casino before you create a scene.Ô Kjersten quietly stood her ground, but Gunnar had enough lip for both of them.
        ÓA scene,Ô said Gunnar. ÓRight.Ô He nodded and backed away. I thought we were going to wait in the lobby, but then Gunnar turned around in the middle of the aisle. For a second I thought he might say something meaningful and thought provoking×like maybe a really well-chosen fake quote. But no. Gunnar decided it was time to sing. This wasnÒt a quiet kind of singing either. He belted out at the top of his voice, and the sounds that came out of his mouth were like no words IÒd ever heard.
        ÓDu gamla, Du fria, Du fjallhoga nord...Ô
        As far as interventions go, this was taking on a whole personality of its own.
        ÓItÒs the Swedish national anthem,Ô Kjersten explained to me.
        ÓDu tysta, Du gladjerika skona!Ô
        Mr. Umlaut just stared at him with the kind of shock and embarrassment that can only come from a parent.
        ÓJag halsar Dig, vanaste land uppa jord.Ô
        Kjersten joined in, and now it was a duet. Since I didnÒt know the Swedish national anthem, I improvised and began to sing the most Swedish thing I knew. I began to sing a song by that Swedish seventies group, Abba.
        So now the croupier looks at the pit boss, the pit boss signals the manager, and the manager comes running.
        ÓDin sol, Din himmel, Dina angder grona.Ô
        All gambling in the casino grinds to a screeching halt as we perform.
        ÓYou can dance! You can jive! Having the time of your life!Ô I sing at the manager, whoÒs much less entertained than I believe he should be.
        Kjersten and Gunnar complete their anthem, and although IÒve still got a couple of verses of ÓDancing QueenÔ left, I figure itÒs wise to wrap it up early. Some of the gamblers applaud, and not knowing what else to do, we all take fancy bows, and the manager turns to Mr. Umlaut and says, ÓI think you should leave now.Ô
        Mr. Umlaut did not look happy as we crossed the casino toward the lobby. Gunnar, on the other hand, looked downright triumphant at his little victory. Even more triumphant than he did on the night of the rally. It was Kjersten who seemed worried, because she knew as well as I did that this was just one battle in a much bigger war. The security guard escorting us must have resented that look on GunnarÒs face, because he was rough with him, and got rougher when Gunnar tried to pull out of his grasp.
        ÓAre you gonna let this rent-a-cop beat me upØÔ
        Mr. Umlaut didnÒt look at him. He didnÒt say a word until we were off the casino floor, and the security guard returned to his duties, satisfied that we were no longer a threat.
        ÓProud of yourself, GunnarØÔ
        ÓAre youØÔ Gunnar answered, with such righteous authority that his father couldnÒt look him in the eye.
        ÓThere are things you donÒt understand.Ô
        ÓI understand a lot more than you think.Ô
        Rather than letting the two of them bicker, Kjersten cut it off. ÓDaddy,Ô she said, Ówe want you to come home.Ô
        He didnÒt answer right away. Instead he looked at them, perhaps searching for something in their faces, but you couldnÒt read much in those two×in that way, they took after their father.
        ÓDidnÒt your mother tell youØÔ he said.
        ÓWhatØÔ said Gunnar. ÓThat youÒre splitting upØ Of course she did.Ô
        It surprised me that he hadnÒt told them himself. Even if they already knew, he had a responsibility to say it in his own words.
        ÓI will let you know where I am, once I know myself,Ô he said. ÓThereÒs nothing to worry about.Ô
        ÓThereÒs a lot to worry about,Ô Gunnar said×then Gunnar got closer to him. All this time he had maintained a distance from his father, like there was an invisible wall around him. Now Gunnar stepped inside that wall. ÓYouÒre sick, Dad.
        He looked at the casino, all full of whirring, blaring, coin-clanging excitement, then turned back to his father. ÓYouÒre very sick. And I think if you donÒt do something about it... if you donÒt stop gambling, somehow itÒs going to kill you.Ô
        But rather than taking it in, Mr. Umlaut seemed to just pull his wall in closer, so Gunnar was on the outside again. ÓIs that what your mother saysØÔ
        ÓNo,Ô said Kjersten. ÓWe figured it out for ourselves.Ô
        ÓI appreciate your concern,Ô he said, like he was talking to strangers instead of his children. ÓIÒll be fine.Ô
        ÓWhat about themØÔ I said. Maybe I was out of line speaking at all, but I had to say something.
        Suddenly I found all his anger turned against me. ÓWhat business is this of yoursØ What do you know about our familyØ What do you know about anythingØÔ
        ÓLeave him alone!Ô shouted Kjersten. ÓAt least heÒs around when we need him. At least heÒs there.Ô Which I guess is the best you could say about me. ÓAt least heÒs not away day after day, gambling away every penny he owns. How much money have you lost, DadØ Then the car×and now the house ...Ô
        ÒYouÒre not understanding!Ô he said, loud enough to snag the attention of another family waiting to check in. They peered at us over their luggage, pretending not to. Mr. Umlaut forced his voice down again. ÓThe car, the house×we were losing them anyway×if not this month, then next month. A few dollars gambled makes no difference.Ô
        I think he truly believed that×and for the first time, I began to understand what Kjersten and Gunnar were up against. Mr. Umlaut had, once upon a time, been a lawyer. That meant he could create a brilliant and convincing argument as to why the hours, days, and weeks spent in a casino were the best possible use of his time. IÒm sure if I sat there and let him make his argument, he might even convince me. Juries let guilty men go free all the time.
        Then Gunnar dropped the bombshell. It was a bombshell I didnÒt even know about.
        ÓMomÒs taking us back to Sweden,Ô he said. ÓSheÒs taking us there for good.Ô
        Although the news shocked me, I have to say I wasnÒt surprised. Apparently neither was Mr. Umlaut. He waved his hand as if shooing away a swarm of gnats. ÓSheÒs bluffing,Ô he said. ÓSheÒs been saying that forever. SheÒll never do it.Ô
        ÓThis time she means it,Ô Kjersten said. ÓShe has airplane tickets for all of us,Ô and then she added, ÓAll of us but you.Ô
        This hit Mr. Umlaut harder than anything else that had been said today. He looked at them, then looked at me as if I was somehow the mastermind of some conspiracy against him. He went away in his own head for a few moments. I could almost hear the conversation he was having with himself. Finally he spoke with the kind of conviction we had all been hoping to hear.
        ÓShe canÒt do that.Ô He shook his head. ÓShe canÒt legally do that. She canÒt just take you from the country without my permission!Ô
        We all waited for him to make that momentous decision to DO something. Anything. This is what Gunnar and Kjersten wanted. Sure, it wasnÒt reconciliation between their parents, but it was the next best thing×they wanted their father to see what he was losing, and finally choose to do something about it.
        I felt sure Gunnar and Kjersten had finally broken through that wall. Until Mr. Umlaut released a long, slow sigh.
        ÓPerhaps itÒs all for the best,Ô he said. ÓHave your mother call me. IÒll sign all the necessary papers.Ô
        And it was over. Just like that, it was over.


***
        There are some things I donÒt understand, and donÒt think I ever will. I donÒt understand how a person can give up so totally and completely that they dive right into the heart of a black hole. I canÒt understand how someoneÒs need to gamble, or to drink, or to shoot up, or to do anything can be greater than their need to survive. And I donÒt understand how pride can be more important than love.
        ÓOur fatherÒs a proud man,Ô Kjersten said as we drove away from the casino×as if pride can be an excuse for acting so shamefully×and yes, I know the man was sick, just as Gunnar said, but that didnÒt excuse the choice he made today.
        I felt partially to blame, because I was the one who convinced Gunnar and Kjersten to come. I honestly believed it would make a difference. Like I said, I come from a family of fixers×but what happens when something simply canÒt be fixedØ
        I thought about my own father, fighting for his life, and winning, even as Mr. Umlaut threw his life away, surrendering×and it occurred to me how a roll of the dice had given me back my father, and had taken theirs away.
        The day was bright and sunny as we drove home, Gunnar in the back, me shotgun beside Kjersten. I wished it wasnÒt such a nice day out. I wished it was raining, because the mind-numbing sound of the windshield wipers swiping back and forth would have been better than the silence, or all the false emotions of the radio, which had been on for a whole minute before Kjersten turned it off. Kjersten looked a little tired, a little grateful, and a little embarrassed that I had seen their seedy family moment. It made driving home now all the more awkward.
        A lot of things made more and more sense now. GunnarÒs illness, for one. I wondered when he first began suspecting they might move out of the country. But being sick×that would change everything, wouldnÒt itØ It could keep his parents together×force his father to spend money on treatment instead of gambling it away. And since the best treatment was right here in New York, no one would be going anywhere. If I were Gunnar, I might wish I had Pulmonary Monoxic Systemia, too. Because the sickness of the son might cure the sickness of the father.
        I held off filling our driving silence as long as I could, but thereÒs only so long you can resist your own nature.
        ÓI had this friend once,Ô I told them. ÓFunny kind of kid. The thing is, his mom abandoned him in a shopping cart when he was five×and his dad treated him like he didnÒt even exist...Ô
        ÓSo, do all your friends have screwed-up familiesØÔ Gunnar asked.
        ÒYeah, IÒm like flypaper for dysfunction. Anyway, he had it rough for a while, did some really stupid things×but in the end he turned out okay. He even tracked down his mom.Ô
        ÓAnd they lived happily ever afterØÔ said Gunnar.
        ÓWell, last I heard, they both disappeared in the Bermuda Triangle×but for them that was normal.Ô
        ÓI think what AntsyÒs saying,Ô said Kjersten, sounding a little more relaxed than she did before, Óis that weÒre going to be fine.Ô
        ÓFine might be pushing it,Ô I said. ÓI would go with Øless screwed up than most people.ÒÔ That made Gunnar laugh×which was good. It meant I was getting through to him. ÓWho knows,Ô I said, Ómaybe your dad will turn himself around someday, and youÒll hear his wooden shoes walking up to your door.Ô ÓWooden shoes are from Holland, not Sweden,Ô Gunnar said, but I think he got the point. ÓAnd even if he does come around, who says I willØÔ
        ÓYou will,Ô I told him.
        ÓI donÒt think so,Ô he said bitterly.
        ÓYeah, you will,Ô I told him again. ÓBecause youÒre not him.Ô
        Gunnar snarled at me, because he knew I had him. ÓNow you sound like my mother,Ô he said.
        ÓNo, itÒs much worse than that,Ô I told him. ÓI sound like my mother.Ô
        The fact is, Gunnar and his father might have been a lot alike×embracing their own doom, whether it was real or imagined. But in the end, Gunnar stopped carving his own tombstone. In my book, that made him twice the man his father was.

20. Life Is Cheap, but Mine Is Worth More Than a Buck Ninety-eight in a Free-Market Economy



        On Monday I finally listened to my phone messages×they were all back from the night we first went to the hospital, because my voice mail maxed out in just a couple of hours. The messages were all pretty much the same; people wondering how my father was, wondering how I was, and wanting to talk. The wanting-to-talk part always sounded urgent, suggesting something that was, at least in their worlds, of major importance.
        And so on Monday I finally went back to school for the first time since Black Wednesday, ready to take care of business.
        At first people slapped me on the back, offered their support, and all that. I wondered who would be the first to say what was really on his or her mind. I should have guessed that Wailing Woody Wilson would be the first to cross the line of scrimmage, and go deep.
        ÓHey, Antsy, IÒm glad your dadÒs okay and all×but thereÒs something I need to talk about.Ô The awkward look of shame in his eyes almost made me feel bad for him. ÓAbout those months I gave Gunnar. I know it was just symbolic and all, but IÒd feel a whole lot better if I could have them back. Now.Ô
        ÓCanÒt do that,Ô I said, Óbut how about thisØÔ Then I pulled a notebook out of my backpack, snapped open the clasp and handed him two fresh contracts, which I had already signed. ÓThatÒs two months of my life,Ô I told him. ÓAn even trade for the ones you gave Gunnar. All you have to do is sign as witness, and theyÒre yours.Ô
        He looked at them, considered it, and said, ÓI guess that works,Ô and he left.
        It was like that with everybody. Even easier with some. Sometimes people never got past ÓListen, Antsy×" before I handed them a month, told them vaya con Dios, which is like French or something for Ógo with God,Ô and sent them on their merry way.
        I witnessed the true nature of human greed that day, because everyone seemed to be on the dole. Once people realized what I was doing, it became a feeding frenzy. Suddenly everyone claimed to have given multiple months, even people who never gave at all. But I didnÒt care. I was willing to go the distance.
        By the time the bell rang, ending the school day, the feeding frenzy was over, and I had given away 123 years of my life. I told Frankie this when I got to the hospital that afternoon. I thought heÒd call me an idiot like he always does, but instead he was very impressed.
        ÓYou had an Initial Public Offering!Ô he told me. Frankie, who was on the fast track to being a stockbroker, knew all about these things. ÓA successful IPO means that people believe your life is worth a lot more than it actually is.Ô And then he added, ÓYouÒd better live up to expectations, though, otherwise you go bankrupt and gotta file chapter eleven.Ô
        And since chapter eleven was pretty annoying, IÒd just as soon avoid it.
        Of all the conversations I had that day, the most interesting was with Skaterdud, who was skating up and down my street when I got home from school. As it turns out, things were not well in the world of Dud.
        ÓBad news, Antsy. IÒm reeling from the blow, man, reeling. I knew I had to talk to you, because not everyone couldnÒt understand like you, hear meØÔ
        ÓSo what happenedØÔ
        ÓThe fortune-teller×the one who told me about my burial at sea. Turns out she was a fake! WasnÒt even psychic. SheÒs been ripping people off, and telling them stuff she just made up. Got arrested for it. She didnÒt even have no fortune-telling license!Ô
        ÓImagine that,Ô I said, trying to hide my smirk. ÓA fortune-teller making stuff up.Ô
        ÓYou know what this means, rightØ It means that all bets are off. There ainÒt no telling when I do the root rhumba. ItÒs all free fall without a parachute until I meet the mud. Very disturbing, dude. Very disturbing. I could get hit by a bus tomorrow.Ô
        ÓYou probably wonÒt.Ô
        ÓBut I could, thatÒs the thing. Now I gotta restructure my whole way of thinking around a world of uncertainty. I ainÒt none too unhappy about this.Ô
        I thought I knew where Skaterdud was leading me, but with the Dud, conversational kickflips are not uncommon, and directions can suddenly change. ÓSo I guess you want your year back, rightØÔ
        He looked at me like I had just arrived from someone elseÒs conversation. ÓNo×why would I want thatØÔ
        ÓThe same reason everybody else does,Ô I told him. ÓMy dadÒs heart attack suddenly made you all superstitious, and youÒre afraid youÒre going to lose all that time.Ô
        He shook his head. ÓThatÒs just stupid.Ô He put a scabby hand on my shoulder as we walked, as if he was an older, smarter brother imparting deep wisdom. ÓHereÒs the way I see it: that fortune-tellerÒs a crook, rightØ Tried and convicted. And in a court of law when someone is guilty of theft, they usually gotta pay damages to the plaintiff, rightØ And is there not justice in the UniverseØÔ ÓProbably, yeah.Ô
        ÓSo there you go.Ô And he tapped me on the forehead to indicate the passage of knowledge into my brain. ÓUh... I lost you.Ô
        He threw up his hands. ÓHavenÒt you been listeningØ That year will come from the fortune-tellerÒs life, not mine. Damages, seeØ She pays cosmic, karmic damages. Simple as that.Ô
        In this world, there is a fine line between enlightenment and brain damage, and I have to say that Skaterdud grinds that line perfectly balanced.

21. WeÒll Always Have Paris, CapisceØ



        The Saturday before their flight, the Umlauts had a garage sale. It was more than a garage sale, though, since official foreclosure was three days away, and everything had to go before the bank took possession of the house. Most of what they owned was either on the driveway or on the dead front lawn. The rest was in the process of being carried out. I added my muscle to the effort until everything that could fit through the front door was outside in the chilly morning.
        They had advertised the sale in the paper, so scavengers from every unwashed corner of Brooklyn had crawled out from under one rock or another to pick through their belongings. No question that there were deals to be made that day.
        Gunnar seemed less interested in the sale than he did talking about what lay ahead.
        ÓWeÒll be staying with my grandma,Ô he told me. ÓAt least for a while. SheÒs got this estate outside of Stockholm.Ô
        ÓItÒs not an estate,Ô said Kjersten. ÓItÒs just a house.Ô
        ÓYeah, well, if it was here, it would be considered an estate. She even paid for our plane tickets. WeÒre flying first class.Ô
        ÓBusiness,Ô corrected Kjersten.
        ÓOn Scandinavian Airlines, thatÒs just as good.Ô
        ThatÒs when I realized that somewhere between yesterday and today, Gunnar had already made the move without anyone noticing. His head was already there at that Swedish estate, settling in. Getting the rest of him there was now just a shipping expense. I marveled that in spite of everything, Gunnar was bouncing back. Suddenly he was looking forward to something other than dying. He wasnÒt even wearing black anymore.
        I helped Kjersten sort through things in her room, which felt kind of weird, but she wanted me to be there. IÒll admit I wanted to be there, too. Not so much for the sorting, but just for the being. I tried not to think about how quickly the day was moving, and how soon sheÒd be heading out to the airport.
        ÓThereÒs a two-suitcase limit per person on the flight to Stockholm,Ô Kjersten told me. ÓAfter that, thereÒs an extra charge.Ô She thought about it and said, ÓI think I might have trouble filling both suitcases.Ô
        I guess once you start parting with all the things you think hold your life together, itÒs hard to stop×and then you find out your life holds together all by itself.
        ÓItÒs just stuff,Ô I told her. ÓAnd stuff is just stuff.Ô ÓBrilliant,Ô Gunnar said from the next room. ÓCan I quote you on thatØÔ
        Later in the day Mr. Umlaut came by with a U-Haul to take away what few things didnÒt sell, which wasnÒt much, and to say his good-byes.
        It was cordial, and it was awkward, but at least it happened. A ray of hope for the danglers.
        ÓHe says heÒs got an apartment in Queens,Ô Gunnar told me after he left×which I suppose was a giant step up from a room at a casino×so maybe our little visit did have some effect after all. ÓHe says heÒs looking for a job. WeÒll see.Ô


***
        Later that day I got a call from Mr. Crawley demanding that I come to Paris, CapisceØ I hadnÒt been there since my fatherÒs heart attack. Neither had my dad×he was still at home recuperating, and leaving restaurant business to everyone else, under threat of brain surgery by my mom.
        ÓYou will report at six oÒclock sharp,Ô Crawley said. ÓTell no one.Ô
        Which of course was like an invitation to tell everyone. In the end, I only told Kjersten, and asked her to come with.
        ÓFor our final date, IÒm taking you to a fancy restaurant,Ô I told her. ÓAnd this time no oneÒs grounded.Ô
        When we arrived, I discovered, to my absolute horror, that Crawley had installed something new to complement the ambience. On the restaurantÒs most visible wall was a giant framed poster of me pouring water over Senator BoswellÒs head. There was a caption above it. It read:
        PARIS, CAPISCEØ
        French attitude, with a hot Italian temper.
        It just made Kjersten laugh, and laugh and laugh. I tried to tell myself this was a good thing×that she needed to laugh far more than I needed, oh, say self-respectØ
        Wonder of wonders, Crawley was actually there×in fact, I found out he had been there on a regular basis, training the staff, through various forms of employer abuse, in how to run a top-notch restaurant. When it came to the poster of me and my victim, he was very pleased with himself. ÓI also rented several billboards around the city,Ô he told me.
        ÓWhereØÔ Kjersten wanted to know. I was a little too numb to hear the answer.
        ÓAre we done yetØÔ I asked Crawley. ÓCan we eat nowØÔ
        ÓOh,Ô said Crawley, Óbut the festivities are just beginning.Ô
        Waiting in the restaurantÒs second room was a film crew from Entertainment Right Now, a daily show that featured movie news and celebrities doing scandalous things. TodayÒs celebrity in question was none other than×yes, you guessed it×Jaxon Beale, lead singer of NeuroToxin. He sat relaxing at a table with a plate of fake food in front of him. He looked shorter than he does in music videos.
        Kjersten was instantaneously starstruck, and suddenly what began as humiliation became something else entirely. ØYou knew all about this, didnÒt you!Ô she said to me.
        I neither confirmed nor denied it. Today I was getting more mileage from silence than from ignorance.
        I wasnÒt quite sure what this was all about, or why Crawley had requested my presence, except to maybe show off the fact that he somehow dragged a celebrity in through our doors ... but then someone bodily grabs me, puts me in my white busboy apron, and someone else puts a pitcher of water into my hands. I stood there looking dumb, one episode behind the program.
        ÓRoll camera,Ô the director shouts, and Jaxon looks at me, doing the bring-it-on gesture with his fingers.
        ÓCÒmon, what are you waiting forØ Do I get an official welcome, or notØÔ
        I can see Crawley grinning and wringing his fingers in anticipation in the background like Wile E. Coyote, and I finally get it. So does Kjersten.
        ÓOmigosh!Ô says Kjersten. ØYouÒre going to dump water on JAXON BEALE!Ô
        ItÒs the first time I ever heard Kjersten, star of the debate team, say ÓOmigosh.Ô All at once I realized that, for this wet, shining moment, our roles were truly reversed. Not only was I Mr. Mature, but now she was the goofy fourteen-year-old.
        ÓWell,Ô I said, smooth as a Porsche on ice, Óif my buddy Jaxon wants water, then water he shall have.Ô I strode up to him as Kjersten squealed with her hands over her mouth, and I said, ÓWelcome to Paris, CapisceØ, Mr. Beale.Ô Then I emptied the pitcher over his head.
        He stood up, shaking the water off, and for a second IÒm worried that maybe heÒll get mad and punch me out, but instead, he just starts laughing, turns to the camera, and says, ÓNow, thatÒs celebrity treatment!Ô
        From here, I didnÒt need a road map to know exactly where this was leading and why. Crawley had paid Beale a small fortune for this publicity stunt, and it was money well spent. Say what you want about Creepy Crawley, but the man is a marketing genius.
        ÓItÒs all about spin,Ô Old Man Crawley said while Jaxon Beale signed a waterlogged autograph for Kjersten, and other arriving guests. ÓThere are lots of egos out there. Once this piece airs, celebrities, politicians, you name it, will be climbing over one another to get drenched by you.Ô
        Thanks to our celebrity encounter, it became a date to remember. Even more special, because I knew it would be our last. I tried not to dwell on that, though, because weÒd shared enough sad occasions together. We deserved for this one to be happy. I ordered in Italian!-^ donÒt speak it all that well, but I can order like a pro. Still on her Jaxon Beale high, Kjersten was all gush, flush, and blush for a while. ÓI probably looked so stupid!Ô she said. ÓLike one of those lame adoring fans.Ô
        ÓNaa,Ô I told her. ØYouÒre cute when youÒre embarrassed.Ô
        By the time dessert came, everything settled down, and the dating balance was restored. It was different now, though. For the first time, I felt more like her equal. Maybe now she saw me that way, too×and it occurred to me that a relationship isnÒt about being two distinct kinds of people×itÒs about feeling comfortable in whatever roles the moment required.
        I guess thatÒs why my friendship with Lexie survived through Norse gods and echolocation×we always seemed to be what the other one needed.
        ÓTell you what,Ô Lexie told me as we sat in her living room one afternoon, planning her grandfatherÒs next kidnapping. ÓIf we both happen to be in between relationships, I see nothing wrong with going out to dinner, or a concert now and then.Ô
        I think it was good for both of us to know that as long as we were both there for each other, weÒd always have a social life, even when we had no social life.


***
        On the morning of the UmlautsÒ flight to Sweden, we had a funeral.
        IÒd like to say it was symbolic, but, sadly, it was all too real. Ichabod, our beloved family cat, finally went to the great windowsill in the sky. We decided to bury him in the UmlautsÒ backyard, since there was already a sizable gravestone available that otherwise would have gone to waste. Gunnar spackled over his own name, then chiseled out ICHABOD on the other side, and it was good to go.
        Christina had written a heartfelt eulogy that I suspect she had been working on for months, the way newspapers start preparing obituaries the instant a celebrity gets a hangnail. With all the family pictures covering the little wooden crate, and the solemn air of the occasion, IchabodÒs memorial service actually brought a few tears to my eyes. I didnÒt mind that Kjersten and Gunnar saw me cry over a cat. After everything IÒd been through, I had a right. And realistically, who would they tell in SwedenØ
        With Ichabod laid to rest, we went inside to find Mrs. Umlaut sweeping the empty kitchen, because ÓI donÒt want the bank to think weÒre slobs.Ô
        ÓSheÒs just like our mother,Ô Christina noted. I think all mothers are alike, regardless of cultural background, when it comes to illogical cleaning.
        Christina wanted to go home and mourn privately, but I made her wait, because I wanted to see Kjersten and Gunnar off. The luggage was at the front door, waiting for the arrival of the taxi. Six pieces, and a couple of carry-ons.
        Gunnar looked at his house with no outward show of emotion. ÓWe had mice,Ô he said. ÓAnd the drains never smelled right. ItÒs just as well.Ô IÒm sure he felt a lot more than he let on, but it was his way. Kjersten, on the other hand, had moist eyes all over the place. Every corner seemed to hold a hidden memory. She looked fondly into empty places while Mrs. Umlaut kept going around the house, up and down the stairs.
        ÓThereÒs something I forgot,Ô she kept saying. ÓI know thereÒs something I forgot.

        Eventually Kjersten gently grabbed her, and gave her a hug to slow her down. ÓEverythingÒs taken care of, Mom. EverythingÒs ready.Ô The two rocked back and forth for a moment, and I couldnÒt tell whether Mrs. Umlaut was rocking her baby girl, or if Kjersten was rocking her anxious mother. Kjersten grinned at me over her motherÒs shoulder, and I offered her an understanding smile back.
        ThereÒs no question I was going to miss Kjersten, but the kind of sadness I felt wasnÒt the kind that brings up tears, and IÒm thinking, Great, I cried for the cat, but IÒm not crying for her×but I think she was okay with that.
        I think we both knew if she stayed, our relationship wouldnÒt have gone much further. Ours was like one of those fireplace Duraflame logs that burns big and bright, then drops dead an hour before the package says it will. I think itÒs best that we left it here, before it became useless.
        ÓSo,Ô I asked her, only half joking, Óonce you get there, do you think youÒll start dating guys your own ageØÔ
        She looked at me with a grin, then looked away. ÓAntsy, I think youÒve aged at least two years over the past few weeks,Ô she told me. ÓNo matter what, youÒre going to be a hard act to follow.Ô
        For that, I gave her the best kiss of my career×during which Christina said, ÓOh! Is that why you brushed your teeth this morningØÔ
        The taxi finally arrived, honking from outside in repeated little blasts like a fire drill. Gunnar and I brought the luggage to the cabdriver, who, like every New York cabdriver, acted like it was an insult to his profession that he had to load luggage.
        Thanks to all the horn blasts, neighbors had come out onto their porches to watch the UmlautsÒ departure. Then Mrs. Umlaut threw up her hands ÓAh! Now I remember!Ô She ran back into the house and came out with something in her hand. ÓThis is for you,Ô she said to me. ÓSomeone wanted to buy it last Saturday, but I told them it wasnÒt for sale.Ô
        She handed me the stainless-steel meat tenderizer.
        ÓTo remember us by,Ô she said with a wink.
        This was the first hint that she had a sense of humor×and a twisted one, too. I was impressed.
        ÓItÒll be one of my prized possessions×IÒll keep it with my rare paper clips,Ô I told her, and she looked at me funny. ÓNo, really.Ô
        ÓYou must visit us!Ô she said, which I figured was about as likely as me visiting the International Space Station, but I nodded politely and said, ÓSure.Ô
        Then I heard a gruff voice from somewhere down the block intrude on our tender farewell moment.
        ÓWhat about our plants, hahØÔ I turned to see the same paunchy, beady-eyed man, who had made nasty comments before, peering down from his second-floor balcony. From this angle, the guy looked like what you might get if you crossed a human being with one of those potbellied pigs. ÓYou gonna send us back some freakinÒ tulipsØÔ he mocked.
        Mrs. Umlaut sighed, and Kjersten shook her head as she got into the taxi. ÓWhy does everyone confuse us with HollandØÔ
        ÓI know this guy,Ô says Christina. ÓHis kidÒs in my class. He eats pencil sharpenings.Ô
        ÓGo on,Ô grunted the pig-man. ÓGet atta here! We donÒt need ya!Ô
        IÒm about to tell the guy off×but then I hear a bang, and I see that Gunnar has jumped up on the trunk of the taxi×and, to the driverÒs extreme chagrin, Gunnar climbs up so heÒs standing on the taxiÒs roof.
        ÒYou canÒt get rid of me!Ô he yells to the pig-man. Then he turns to address all the neighbors, speaking loud and clear: ÓIÒll be everywhere×wherever you look. Wherever thereÒs a fight so hungry people can eat, IÒll be there. Wherever theyÒs a cop beatinÒ up a guy, IÒll be there. IÒll be in the way guys yell when theyÒre mad, anÒ IÒll be in the way kids laugh when theyÒre hungry anÒ they know supperÒs ready. AnÒ when our folks eat the stuff they raise anÒ live in the houses they build×why, IÒll be there.Ô
        I had to smile×I even applauded, because at last Gunnar had found a real quote. And with all due respect to John Steinbeck, as far as IÒm concerned, Gunnar owns it now!
        Gunnar took a long, elaborate bow, then hopped down from the roof, and did something very un-Gunnar-like. He gave me this sudden, death-grip hug that crunched my bones like a chiropractor. When he let go, we stood there for a moment, feeling stupid.
        ÓDewey Lopez didnÒt get a picture of that, did heØÔ I asked.
        ÓIf he did, itÒs your problem now.Ô Then he jumped in the taxi. ÓCiao.Ô
        Kjersten put her hand out the window for one final farewell grasp, and the taxi driver floored it, nearly leaving KjerstenÒs hand behind with me. I watched as they accelerated down the street and turned the corner.
        ÓSomeday,Ô said Christina, ÓI hope to have friends as problematic as yours.Ô
        My thoughts were still on Kjersten. I wish I could have come up with a quote like Gunnar did×yÒknow, the absolute the perfect parting words to leave Kjersten with.
        But what do you say to a Scandinavian beauty whoÒs about to get on a plane and fly out of your lifeØ

22. A Weed Grows in Brooklyn



        Just as Old Man Crawley predicted, Paris, CapisceØ had celebrities dragging their nails over one anotherÒs backs to get in the door. We ended up having to schedule celebrities×one per night×so they didnÒt all arrive at once. Dad, still recuperating, took the calls from home, chatting with agents, and the stars themselves. It was great! I got to meet more famous people than I thought IÒd meet in a lifetime, then pour water over their heads.
        With all this celebrity appeal, the restaurant was packed every night with people hoping to eat a fine meal, spot someone famous, and see them get drenched×either by me, or this guy they hired who looked and sounded like me, which I still find too creepy to talk about.
        Christina even got into it, selling the pitchers we used on eBay for prices that could fund her college education someday.
        Long story short, by the time Dad was ready to go back to work, Paris, CapisceØ was the hottest restaurant in Brooklyn. We were all realistic enough to know that trends pass, that it wouldnÒt last forever, but weÒd also been through enough to know we gotta enjoy what we got, when we got it.
        ÓItÒs gonna be different now,Ô he told us. ÓNow that the restaurantÒs always busy, thereÒs going to be a lot more work.Ô
        So he doubled his staff, and cut his own hours in half, leaving the stress for someone else. He even has time to cook at home with Mom again, and watch a game or two on the weekends with me.
        ÓWhen I finally go, IÒm sure itÒll be a heart attack,Ô he said to me. ÓBut letÒs hope I go like your grandpaÔ×whose ticker didnÒt give out until he was pushing eighty-eight.
        ItÒs all about spin, Old Man Crawley had said. Spin makes a big difference, doesnÒt itØ My father almost died, but spin it a little, and itÒs a life-changing warning that taught him to appreciate the important things in life. And the Umlauts×they lost just about everything they had, but with the right spin, it becomes a shining opportunity to start fresh.
        I went back to their block a few months later, out of curiosity more than anything else. The house was still empty, and still at the center of a dust bowl. The bank that now owned the home was still trying to find a buyer×but, see, my sister, in her attempt to keep Ichabod undisturbed, had started a rumor that the backyard didnÒt just contain a single cat grave×it was, in fact, a local pet cemetery, and the final resting place of a hundred neighborhood critters×not all of them resting in peace.
        Funny thing about rumors, the harder a rumor is to believe, the more likely itÒs going to chase buyers away. Serves the bank right.
        As I approached the house that day, I saw a single weed trying to poke its way up through a crack in the pavement. The first sign that the dust bowl was over! Then, as I looked more closely at the yards all around me, I could see patches of little ugly weeds popping up everywhere. Life was coming back to the street, and I thought how appropriate that the first plants to come back will be the plants all the neighbors will kill with more herbicide. Thus is the cycle of life.
        Me, I had better things to do than watch the weeds grow×because for my fifteenth birthday, my parents got me a passport, and a plane ticket. Brooklyn weeds may have their own unique charm×but I hear spring break is beautiful in Sweden!



        APPENDIX 1



        MORE FAKE QUOTES BY GUNNAR UMLAUT
        ÓA family is a collection of strangers trapped in a web of DNA and forced to cope.
        × MARIA VON TRAPP
        ÓNo luncheon shall ever present itself free from payment in coin or pound of flesh.Ô ×WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
        ÓAll right, I admit to having cursed the darkness once or twice.Ô ×ELEANOR ROOSEVELT
        ÓBeing rich is nothing when compared to being really, really richÔ ×BILL GATES
        ÓWhat no one seems to realize is that there are no bathrooms on the moon.Ô ×NEIL ARMSTRONG
        ÓI do not mourn the loss of my hearing, and in fact, I foresee a time when popular music shall cause entire populations to long for my affliction.Ô ×LUDWIG VAN BEETHOVEN
        ÓTime is the unquantifiable commodity that greases the gear work of creation. But I prefer Russian dressing.Ô ×ALBERT EINSTEIN
        ÓThe fabrication of quotes is like the manufacture of polyester. It may pretend to be silk, but suffocates when the climate is hot.Ô ×MAHATMA GANDHI



        APPENDIX 2



        THE DEATH EUPHEMISMS OF SKATERDUD
        Pushing Posies
        Meeting the Mud
        The Dirt Dance
        Snooze Button Bingo
        The Root Rhumba
        Sucking Seaweed[For burial at sea.]
        The Formaldehyde High
        Visiting Uncle Mort
        Sniffing Satin
        The China Express
        Bucket Soccer
        The Last Lawn Party
        Farm Finale
        The Shovel Symphony
        ChillinÒ with Jimmy
        Box Potato
        El Sayonara Grande



        APPENDIX 3

        ANTSY BONANOÒS TIME CONTRACT (IN ITS FINAL VERSION)
        I, being of sound mind and body, do hereby bequeath one month of my natural life to
        Gunnar Umlaut, subject to the stuff listed below:

1. The month shall not be this coming May or June, or the last month of Gunnar UmlautÒs life, any leap-year Februaries, or the months of his high school or college graduations, or the month of his marriage, should he live to those dates, as those months are already reserved by others.

2. The month shall be taken from the end of my natural life, and not the middle.

3. The donated month shall be null and void if my own expiration date is less than
31 days from the date of this contract, regardless of the length of the month which is ultimately donated.

4. Should Gunnar Umlaut use my month for criminal acts such as shoplifting or serial killing, I shall not be held responsible.

5. The month shall be reduced to two weeks should Gunnar Umlaut become my enemy for any reason including but not limited to the following: familial feud, personal grudge, nonrepayment of debt, all forms of bad-mouthing, hallway bullying, refusing a reasonable request to share lunch.

6. Gunnar Umlaut, and/or his next of kin shall have no claim on property, or chunks of time beyond those granted in this contract, and said month shall have no cash value, unless mutually agreed upon, in which case I shall share equally in the cash value, without limitation, with the exception of limitations rising from the verifiable end of Gunnar UmlautÒs life, either prior to or after aforementioned end.

7. Should any disputes arise from the exchange of this month, both parties agree to submit to binding arbitration by Anthony Bonano, who in this contract shall be known as the Master of Time. Signature
        Signature of Witness


        notes

        Ïðèìå÷àíèÿ


1

        Not really.

2

        (I suggested a pitcher of water, but Mom reached over Christina and smacked me.)

3

        (At this point dad reached to the dashboard, and for the briefest insane moment, I thought he might be reaching for an ejection button that would send aunt Mona flying through the roof×but he was just turning on the radio.)

4

        For burial at sea.


 
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