Antsy Does Time

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Interesting shirt,” Gunnar said.

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

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

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

Neena approached the podium, tapped the microphone to make sure it was on, and began. “Welcome to our rally in support of our classmate and friend Gunnar 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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The audience applauded with questionable enthusiasm.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes! We! Do!” she snapped back in the harshest whisper I’ve 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 we’d be there until morning. Then, from the back of the room, I heard, “Oh, for goodness’ sake!” 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.

“How much do you need?” he asked, getting right to business.

“Two years,” Neena answered.

“You got it. Where do I sign?”

I took a time contract and handed it to my father, showing what to fill in, and where to sign.

“Thank you, Dad,” I said. “Really.”

“Your aunt is driving us crazy,” he told me. “It was either this or a grudge match between her and your