We Are the Ants (10 page)

The banging finally stopped, but that's how I knew something was up. Charlie was nothing if not relentless. He once went four days without food when he was little because Mom had refused to buy him a stuffed giraffe he wanted.

Still damp from the steam, and wearing only a towel, I hurried to my bedroom. The door was open, and I was greeted by the sight of Charlie standing beside my desk, pissing into my trash can. When he saw me, he didn't stop—not Charlie—instead he flashed me a toothy, sadistic grin. The kind that makes me wonder if my brother is a sociopath. I didn't know what to do other than stand there in total disbelief while he finished, shook off the last drops, and zipped up his fly.

“Oh,” Charlie said, “was that your homework? If Mom finds out you didn't turn it in, you're in a lot of trouble.” I didn't think it possible for me to hate my brother more than I did, but I should have known better. “Get it?
You're in
a lot of trouble?”

I glanced at the black plastic trash can and then at my brother. Trash can, brother, trash can, brother. “What kind of fucking psycho pisses on someone's homework?”

“You don't need to be a little bitch about it. Anyway, I told you to get out of the bathroom.”

“Charlie! You pissed on my homework! In my bedroom!” Drops of urine had splattered out of the wastebasket and clung to the side of my desk. “I can't believe Zooey didn't have an abortion the moment she realized she was pregnant with your demon spawn!”

Before I could stop him—before I even knew what was happening—­Charlie charged across the room and clamped his hand around my throat. He slammed me into the door, grinding my shoulder blades against the wood. “Don't you ever fucking talk about my kid like that.” He didn't even yell. That was the scariest part. His voice was this calm, steady thrum. But he didn't need to yell for me to hear how deadly serious he was.

I slapped Charlie's wrists, not that I was strong enough to break free. I may have been afraid, but I refused to back down. Die right then at Charlie's hands or die in 105 days from an unknown disaster. It made no difference to me. “Please, you're such a fuckup, you'll probably scar that little parasite for life and then abandon it like Dad abandoned us.” My voice croaked from my throat as air fought to escape.

Charlie released me. His chest heaved and sweat rolled down his temples. He loomed over me despite being shorter. For a moment I thought our fight was done, that Charlie was finished with me, but I was mistaken. I didn't even have time to block before he sucker-punched me in the gut. I cried out and clutched my stomach.

“Dad didn't abandon us,” he said. “He abandoned you.”

I struggled to breathe, to look Charlie in the eyes and call him a liar. Tell him he was the worst fucking brother in the universe. That I would have been better off an only child. But I didn't say any of those things. I didn't say anything at all.

“He was so ashamed of what a pathetic loser you were that he couldn't stand being around you. Everyone you care about either runs away or kills themselves, and you think
I'm
a fuckup.”

I shoved Charlie out of my room and slammed the door. I leaned against it, slid to the floor, and put my head in my hands. I wasn't crying because of what Charlie said; I was crying because, deep down, I knew he was right.

  •  •  •  

All day at school, I couldn't stop thinking about my fight with Charlie. About what he'd said. When my parents divorced, they didn't sit me and Charlie down to explain what was happening. One day Dad was just gone, and we stopped talking about him like he'd never existed in the first place. All traces that he'd ever lived at our house disappeared. In my heart I'd always known he'd taken off because of me. It wasn't a coinci­dence that he left only a few weeks after my first abduction.

I was so caught up in my own thoughts that I hardly knew what was going on around me at school. I ignored Audrey when she asked me if I wanted help studying for our next chemistry exam, I blew past Ms. Faraci before she could keep me after class again, and I planned on ditching Diego at lunch too. I was on my way to my locker when Marcus pulled me into an empty art room. Sketches done in charcoal and pencil plastered the walls, and I wondered which ones, if any, belonged to Diego.

“What the hell, Marcus?” He'd nearly yanked my arm out of the socket, and I'd already been abused enough for one day.

Marcus was fidgety. His eyes were wide and manic, his shirt was untucked, and a cluster of pimples that reminded me of the constellation Andromeda dotted his forehead, but he still smelled like summer. “How's it going, Space Boy?”

“Don't call me Space Boy.” A growl crouched in my throat.

“I haven't seen you in a while.”

The classroom was empty, but Mr. Creedy often let students work on projects during lunch, so I expected we wouldn't be alone for long. “Aren't you afraid of being seen talking to Space Boy, or are you going to throw more nickels at me?”

Marcus shook his head. His bangs fell over his forehead, and he flicked them back. “No . . . I missed you, Henry.”

I tapped my lips with the tip of my finger. “Wouldn't it be great if we had a magical device that allowed two people to talk over long distances any time they wanted? They could call it a talky-box.”

Marcus closed the gap between us and placed his hand flat against my chest. I felt the familiar tingle, and I hated that I missed it. “I know you don't believe me, but I like you. I don't want us to be over.”

We were so close, I could feel the heat radiating off his skin. I wanted to tell him that I missed him too. It would have been easy to give in and go to some storage closet, to kiss him and forget about all the yesterdays and tomorrows. But I couldn't forget wanting to die by his pool the night of the party, or walking home because he thought I was a joke. “I can't be one thing to you behind the bleachers and another in front of your friends.”

Marcus sneered. “I get it. You've got a new boyfriend, and you don't need me anymore.”

“Boyfriend? What are you talking about?”

“I've seen you together at lunch.”

“Diego?” Marcus flinched when I said the name. “He's a friend, nothing more.”

“Was I just someone you banged to get over your dead boyfriend?”

Marcus had never spoken to me like that before. I honestly didn't think he cared enough about me to be jealous. “No! Jesus, Marcus.”

“Then come to my house tonight. My parents are attending a fund raiser and won't be home until late.” Gone was the swagger he used like a glamour to hide this needy boy who was begging me to come home with him.

“If I say yes, how long before the next time you humiliate me to amuse your friends?”

“It won't be like that.”

“I want to believe you. . . .”

“Space Boy, you were my first.” His voice trembled. I hadn't known, which made it worse.

I wanted to stay angry, but this Marcus would have invited me to his party. He would have introduced me to his friends. This was the most real he'd ever been, but it wouldn't last. The moment we walked out of the classroom, his cocksure veneer, the spit and polish, would return. I wasn't going to spend my last days on Earth as the butt of his jokes. I may not be sure I want to live, but I'm sure I don't want to live like that.

“Marcus, I can't.”

His armor snapped into place. The vulnerable boy I might have said yes to disappeared, and I'm not sure I'll ever see him again. “I'm not surprised Jesse hanged himself. I'm just surprised he didn't do it sooner.” Marcus shoved me against the wall as he stormed out.

  •  •  •  

I spent my lunch sitting outside the library, trying to comprehend how my life had gotten so fucked up. First my father left, then Jesse. Neither Charlie nor Marcus told me anything I hadn't already considered.

It has been 268 days since I got the phone call from Mrs. Franklin telling me Jesse committed suicide. He left no note, gave no explanation, but I still know it was my fault. He killed himself because of me. Because I loved him too much or not enough. I don't know why; all I know is that it was my fault.

Charlie's and Marcus's words festered in me, and by the time I got to PE, I wanted to hurt someone, anyone. To make them feel how I felt. Narrow rows of lockers separated by benches, fellow students changing into their gym clothes, and the pungent odor of sweat and body spray made my skin itch. I wanted to get dressed for class and get out as quickly as possible.

I shouldered past a couple of kids, and opened my gym locker. Nickels poured out. There had to be hundreds of dollars worth of them spilling to the floor, and I just stared as they fell.

Adrian Morse stood a few feet away by the water fountain with Gary Neuman, Chris Weller, and Dean Gold, laughing his ass off. It must have taken them at least an hour to get all those nickels into my locker, all for a moment's cheap laugh.

The sound in my ears narrowed until all I could hear was that psychotic cackle. I felt something inside me break in that moment. It wasn't just what had happened that day; it was as if all the preceding days, all the hate I'd been hoarding and the guilt I'd buried, erupted, breaking my ability to contain them any longer. I ran toward Adrian and launched myself at him, not caring if he beat the crap out of me. I swung wildly, a berserker bloodlust overriding my rational mind. I screamed at him, but can't remember what I said.

Adrian tried to protect his face, but my fist connected with something solid, and that only made me fight harder. It seemed like hours but was probably only seconds before he kneed me in the crotch, knocking the breath out of me. I fell to the ground, and he kicked me, but I roared back and tackled him, slamming his back against the lockers, pounding him with my fists. I was beyond pain, beyond all reason. I didn't care about anything. Not me, not Jesse, not Marcus. The world was ending, and there were no more consequences. I think I was going to kill him.

Coach Raskin wedged himself between us, yelling at us to break it up, and wrestled me away from Adrian. I struggled to free myself from his powerful grip, but Coach was too strong for me. I shook myself loose and glared at Adrian, sprawled on the locker room floor. Blood ran from his nose, and I smiled. I spit at his feet and left.

  •  •  •  

Mom didn't talk to me until we were in the car. She'd come straight from work, still in her uniform, her apron stained with ketchup and potato soup. After I buckled my seat belt, I examined my bloody, bruised knuckles. My hand hurt when I flexed it, but it was a good hurt. An anchor.

Because Adrian had started it with the nickels, Principal DeShields opted for a month of Saturday detentions rather than suspension. I would have preferred the suspension.

“Do you want to tell me what's gotten into you, Henry Jerome Denton?”

“That asshole had it coming.”

Mom slapped me across the face. My cheek stung, and I touched my jaw while she glowered at me. “You sound like your father.” She cranked up the radio and peeled out of the parking lot, headed for home. My mom had never hit me before, but I think I deserved it.

“It's true, you know.”

“What is?”

I turned down the music. “That Adrian deserved it.”

“That doesn't excuse fighting.”

“I know.”

Mom sighed, shook her head. “It's been rough for you, Henry, I know, but you can't do this. You're flunking three classes, getting into fights. I hardly see you because you're always locked in your room.”

I wanted to tell her she'd know what was going on with me if she ever bothered to ask, but she was so concerned with Charlie and Nana, or too tired from working to bother with me. Aliens abduct me, and she pretends I'm sleepwalking. My boyfriend killed himself, and we don't even talk about it. Like my father, Jesse's name just disappeared from her vocabulary. I would have told her anything, everything, if she had asked, but I knew she wouldn't.

“If the world were going to end, but you could stop it, would you?”

Mom drove for a while without answering. I thought she hadn't heard me, and I leaned my head against the window. Finally she said, “Some days I think I would. Other days, probably not.”

“What about today?”

Mom's shoulders bowed downward. “What do you think, Henry?”

They're hailed as a marvelous breakthrough in modern medi­cine. Their inventors, two scientists from South Africa, are awarded the Nobel Prize for Medicine for their work. The tiny robots are too small to see with the naked eye, but are capable of cooperating to eradicate any disease and to repair any damage done to the human body. The Fixers, as they're called, usher in what many refer to as the Golden Age of Humanity.

Despite warnings from paranoid extremist groups, governments around the world approve Fixers for widespread use. Billionaire philanthropists donate their entire fortunes to fund efforts that bring Fixers to impoverished nations, making certain that every human on the planet in need is able to receive treatment.