now lying lumplike on the sofa, staring at the stock-market quotes scrolling on the financial network.
“Nothing,” I answered, so Christina took it upon herself to elaborate.
“His girlfriend is using him to recapture her lost youth.”
This confused Mom. “What do you mean ?lost youth’? She’s only sixteen!”
“You know how it is,” Christina says. “Everything starts younger and younger these days.”
“It’s not a problem,” I told her. “I know what I’m doing.”
Mom shook her head. “Lost youth! What is she gonna have you do? Wear diapers?”
“Yeah, and she burps me real good, too,” I said.
Mom threw her hands up as she left the room. “I didn’t just hear that.”
My return to school after the holidays was met with much congratulations and pats on the back from friends and kids I didn’t even know. At first I thought it was kudos for being publicly seen dating Kjersten, but it was all because of the
“I could say ?I knew you when,’” Howie told me, as if this would launch me into full-on celebrity status. “Have you gotten any talk-show invitations?”
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 couldn’t anyone understand that?
I also wanted Gunnar’s 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 it?
It actually snowed on Tuesday night—the first snow of the winter, and I hoped we’d have a snow day, postponing or even canceling the rally on Wednesday night. But who was I kidding? There’s 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.
“What are you going to say at the rally tonight?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” I told him. “What do you think I should say?”
“You’re not going to ruin it, are you?”
Did he really think I would tell everyone the truth now? How could I? 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. Didn’t some famous dead artist say that everyone gets fifteen minutes of fame? Who was I to stand in the way of Gunnar’s?
“Maybe I oughta turn the whole thing into a cash collection for your mortgage,” I told him. I don’t know whether he thought I was serious or just being sarcastic. That’s okay, because I didn’t know either.
“Too late for that,” he said. “Knowing my father, the money wouldn’t go to the mortgage anyway.”
“Do your parents know about this rally? Do they have any idea how far this Dr. G thing has gone?”
Gunnar shrugged. Clearly they had no idea. “My mom got snowed in in Stockholm. She won’t be back until late tonight. And my dad ... well, I guess he cares more about his cards than his kids.”
I was really starting to understand Gunnar’s phantom illness. The Umlauts were losing everything they owned; Gunnar’s 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.
“I’m sure your father cares about you,” I told Gunnar. “He’s just messed up.”
“He doesn’t have a right to be messed up until he takes care of the messes he’s already made.”
I didn’t know how to answer that, so instead I answered his original question.
“I’m going to give a speech about Pulmonary Monoxic Systemia, and thank everyone for their time donations. I’m going to say decent things about you. Then I’m going to call you up to the podium.”
“Me?”
“It’s your life. That thermometer’s measuring years for you. You’re the one who has to thank people—make them feel good about what they’ve done.”
Gunnar couldn’t look at me. He looked down, tapped the edge of my locker door with his foot. Then he said, “Dr. G isn’t always wrong.”
“Well... I hope he’s wrong this time, because as screwed up as this whole thing is, I don’t want you to die.”
The bell rang, but Gunnar didn’t leave yet. He hung around for a good ten seconds, then said, “Thanks, Antsy,” and hurried off to class.
The rally was at six, on account of it couldn’t interfere with class instruction or sports—but since it was approved by the district superintendent, who was up-and-coming in her political career, it was taken very seriously. I was hoping that since it was in the evening, a lot of kids wouldn’t show—but then the principal offered every student who came extra credit in the class of their choosing. That was almost as good as free food.
I went home at the end of the school day, figuring I’d be home just long enough to shower, and change, and pray for an asteroid to wipe out all human life before I had to give my speech. When I got out of the shower, Mom accosted me in the hallway.
“Get dressed, we’re picking up Aunt Mona at the airport.”
I just stood there with a towel around me and a sinkhole opening beneath my feet.
“Don’t give me that look,” she said. “Her flight arrives in less than an hour.” I could tell Mom was already at the end of her rope, and the visit hadn’t even started. “Please, Antsy, don’t make this any harder than it needs to be.”
“But... but I got something I gotta do!”
“It can wait.”
I laughed nervously, imagining an auditorium full of people waiting, and waiting and waiting. The one thing worse than having to give this speech was not showing up at all.
“You don’t understand . . . I’m giving a speech tonight for that friend of mine.” And this next part I had to force out, because it wasn’t coming by itself. “The one who’s dying.”
That gave her a moment’s pause. “You’re giving a speech?”
“Yeah. The district superintendent is going to be there and everything.”
“Why is this the first we’re hearing about this?”
“Well, maybe if you two weren’t at the restaurant all the time, you would have heard.” I didn’t mean that, but I chose to play the guilt card because this was serious, and I had to use every weapon at my disposal.
“What time does it start?” she asked.
“Six.”
“Well, if you’re giving a speech, we’ll all want to be there. We can pick up your aunt and make it back by six.”
“You can’t be serious! LaGuardia Airport at this time of day? In this weather? We’ll be lucky if we’re back for the Fourth of July!”
But Mom wasn’t caving. “Don’t worry—your father knows shortcuts. Now go put on that shirt Aunt Mona bought you.”
At last I lost all power of speech. Of all the days to have to wear that stupid pink-and-orange shirt—was I going to have to give a speech in front of the entire student body looking like a cross between a Barbie car and a traffic cone? My mouth hung open, something sounding like Morse code came out, and Mom said:
“Just do it,” and she went downstairs to give the living room a final dusting.
I stewed all the way to LaGuardia.
“Stop pouting,” Mom said, as if this was a mere childish expression of disappointment.
