chapter 13
With one less ant in the world, we leave Raymond’s house. Alix, Stephanie, and I decide to walk the long way home through downtown. We could talk for the next month nonstop and not get everything said and sorted out. What happened? What exactly did we do to the ant? How did we do it? Can we do it again? Can we do it any time we want? Whom can we do it to? We need so many answers and I’m not even sure we have the right questions.
I zip my hoodie and shove my hands into the pockets. It’s not raining for once and it feels more like the usual October weather in this part of California, warm in the day but chilly as soon as the sun sets. Alix takes a black knitted watch cap—basic headgear for surfers—out of the back pocket of her baggy, low-slung jeans and pulls it hard over her ears. Stephanie buttons up her cardigan, which is worn thin at the elbows. Between the bells on her belt and the metal beads threaded into her dreadlocks, she makes music as she walks. She’s dominating the conversation.
“Let’s each pick our top candidate, the number one person who deserves a lesson from us. Can we call what we do a lesson? Lesson sounds so professional. I’ll start.” Pause. “It was in the news today. There’s this coal company in West Virginia that thinks the Clean Water Act doesn’t apply to it. The boss dumps chemicals into the town water supply. And that gives people cancer and kidney damage. Little kids get open wounds, just from taking baths. I’ll show you the pictures. They’re awful.”
It’s a big joke at school how easy it is to make Stephanie cry. Mention a toxic spill or an endangered species halfway around the world, and boo-hoo-hoo. I overheard the Double Ds in the bathroom say that they think it’s all a big phony act, and that Stephanie only pretends to be oh so sensitive because it’s the only way a geek like her can get any attention. They would say something cruel and shallow like that. Stephanie sniffs, and even though I’m not looking at her directly, I know there are tears.
“You really feel for those people, don’t you?” I ask.
She stops so suddenly that we almost collide, and she puts herself right in my face. “How can you not care? How can anyone not feel?” She starts walking again, picking up the pace. Alix and I take giant steps to keep up with her. “What can someone our age do about it? About anything? Write letters? Hold a fund-raiser bake sale? Make speeches in class that everyone makes fun of? Try to tell the truth in a blog that nobody reads? I can’t even vote. I have no power. There’s nothing I can do.”
“Until now,” Alix says.
Stephanie perks up, remembers. “That’s right. Now I finally have power.”
“We have power,” Alix emphasizes.
“Power that we can use to undo the injustices in the world. To make things right and fair.”
“Right for us, too,” Alix points out.
We turn the corner and get hit by a mind-blowing sight. The moon. It’s low on the horizon but full and huge, vibrating white and sharp around the edges. It’s like a cutout moon taking up a whole section of dark construction-paper sky. I stare at it with awe. Stephanie asks Alix whom she would put first on her list to teach a lesson. Alix mumbles a name.
“You want to punish someone named Simon?” I ask.
She turns on me so fast that I stumble backward. She shouts in my face, the Ps popping. “Not punish him! Punish anyone who lays a finger on him, anyone who gives him any shit or takes advantage when I’m not around to stand up for him.”
Stephanie unclips her stainless-steel water bottle from the side of her backpack, takes a drink. “Who’s Simon?”
“My brother. He’s nineteen, but he’s like a little brother. He’s … um, retarded.”
A disapproving groan from Stephanie. “Alix, the word retarded is a derogatory term. You mean developmentally different.”
“Whatever. I’ll tell you who’s different. The rest of the world. Simon’s awesome. Except for how dumb people treat him.”
Stephanie passes her the water bottle, and as I watch Alix throw back her head and guzzle, I realize that even though she’s not afraid to hurl herself into fifteen-foot waves, even though she’s got a scary reputation for not putting up with anything from anyone, when it comes to her brother—and other things that I don’t know about yet—Alix feels helpless and frustrated, too.
With the moon rising, we begin the descent down Laurel Street, a steep hill treasured by the town’s radical skateboarders that brings us into the downtown area. It’s past rush hour, so traffic has slowed a little, but there are still plenty of people on the streets. That’s when I notice something. We’re on everyone’s radar. I’m not used to that. It’s subtle at first. For example, a middle-aged mom type stares at me with a puzzled look, like she can’t place where she knows me from and it’s going to drive her nuts until she figures it out. Then two girls in their twenties stop an intense conversation and drop their eyes when they pass us. A group of loud, obnoxious middle-school skateboarders go mute and step aside respectfully so we can pass through the center of them. All this could be coincidence. It could mean nothing.
But then, get this: a bald guy carrying a briefcase almost trips over the curb, that’s how hard he’s gawking at us. And what about the little girl throwing a fit in front of the Cookie Company because her mom won’t buy her a chocolate chip one? It’s like someone flips the Off switch on her. Suddenly she’s Little Miss Manners, holding her mom’s hand and giving us a look that says I’ll be good. Promise. And the cop who stops traffic to let us cross against the red light. And the homeless guy sitting on the corner who usually never says anything to anyone, never even makes eye contact. When we pass he stands up, salutes, and bows from the waist. And then …
Just ahead on the corner, I spot him. Brendon. A curl of his dark hair twists over one eye. He brushes it back with a hand. I’ve become a little fixated on this frequent gesture of his, because when he does it there’s a moment when he’s unguarded and I catch a glimpse of that other Brendon that I want to believe exists. A Brendon who isn’t like all his vile friends. A Brendon who will see something special in me. A Brendon I don’t have to hate. When he brushes aside his hair it’s like a curtain going up, but then it quickly comes back down.
At the same corner I also spot the big wall of Pox standing next to Brendon. On the other side of him, chugging from a giant-sized plastic bottle of soda, is blond, buzz-cut Gnat, who is half Pox’s height and weight but twice as hyper and just as mean.
It’s too late to cross to the opposite side of the street. There’s no way of avoiding them. All that power that had been surging through me? I feel it draining away, and the feeling is so strong and real that I glance to the ground, almost expecting to see a puddle of something on the concrete.
Why did we walk this way? Why do we have to deal with them? Why didn’t I do something with my hair before we left Raymond’s?
Gnat spots us first, lets loose with a big fart as soon as we’re close. “Why do my farts stink?” he asks no one in particular. “So deaf people can enjoy ’em, too.”
The light is red, so we’re forced to stand there as Gnat chokes with hysterical laughter at his own lame joke. Pox then makes a big show of crumpling an empty Cheetos bag and tossing it on the ground. Bait for Stephanie. Don’t take it, I plead silently. Don’t lecture him about the sin of littering. She mutters disapproval. He puts his hand to his ear, egging her on to scold him aloud so he can make fun of her even more. Radiating silent tension, she picks up the bag and lobs it into the nearby garbage can.
“Two points for the cousin of the monkey,” Pox says.
More Stephanie bait, and this time she takes the whole thing. “Pox, we’re all descended from monkeys. And considering your intelligence, it’s the monkeys who should be insulted by the relationship.”
Pox pounds his fists on his chest, Tarzan-style. “Not me, monkey girl. I’m human and humans rule. Top of the food chain. Survival of the fittest.”
Stephanie’s bells jingle in frustration. “Are you a complete moron, Pox? How can you quote Darwin—survival of the fittest—and not understand evolution?”
“Evolution sucks.” As usual, Pox doesn’t let facts get in the way of his beliefs. “Humans are the alpha dog.” He launches into an exaggerated bodybuilder routine, flexing his biceps and triceps, thrusting a hip, bouncing his tilted pelvis.
Meanwhile I’m doing everything I can to sneak peeks at Brendon and not get caught doing it. I’m fixated on him, I admit it. He’s wearing faded jeans and a brown-and-beige plaid flannel shirt, the top three buttons undone so I can make out the shape of his collarbones and the hollow between them. I sense him maybe looking at me, so I quickly inspect my feet. I study my hands. I turn my attention to the sky, but just my luck, I glance back right when Pox happens to swing around in my direction. My eyes land directly on the zipper of his jeans, and that’s all he needs to target me as his next victim.
A knowing smirk. I want to punch that smirk right off his face. He puckers his mouth and makes a loud smacking noise at me. It’s like his lips are moving in slow motion, which should give me plenty of time to look away in irritation. But I don’t. I am so lame. I can’t. I’m stuck on Pause, and I’m fully aware that Brendon is taking all of this in.
What if he thinks that I actually have the hots for Pox, who is now wagging his tongue at me, heavy-metal style? It’s wide and coated with bright, Cheeto-colored orange. Gross. He steps closer to whisper in my ear. “Tired of hanging around with Gay Ray? Want a taste of the alpha male?”
Brendon then, to my amazement, steps between us and puts a hand on Pox’s big, square shoulder. “Hey dude,” he says. “Lay off a little. She’s not…”
She’s not … I’m not … what? What does this mean? Is Brendon standing up for me? Why would Brendon stand up for me?
These questions and thinking of all the possible answers make my cheeks explode with heat. I want to pound the traitorous things, but that would only make them more pink.
For a second Pox looks at Brendon, puzzled, and then glares at the hand on his shoulder like it’s a mortal threat. But his sharp, warning look disappears as soon as Brendon finishes his sentence. “Dude, she’s not … worth the energy.”
Pox scans me head to feet and dismisses what he sees with a shrug of boredom. “Yeah, yeah, right. Bigger fish to fry.”
I feel like a scrawny minnow, no good to anyone, thrown back into the ocean.
Why won’t the traffic light turn? What’s wrong with the light? The red finally changes, but only to a green arrow, so we’re still trapped while a long line of cars makes left turns. But at least some other people are gathered at the corner now, and I’m grateful for that. Regular, normal people, grown-ups, a mom with a baby. Surely this crowd will keep Pox in check. In another minute we can cross and it will all be over.
Pox starts humming something, like a jingle, and drifts to the back of the small group, maneuvering until he’s right behind Alix and practically singing into her ear. The humming turns to a song. I’m close enough to make out some words. It’s a nursery rhyme.
“Met a pieman going to the fair … let me taste your ware.”
The light finally switches to green and I tug on Alix’s arm. “Come on, Alix! Ignore him,” I practically beg, but I know it’s pointless. She’s not going anywhere. She doesn’t even hear me. Her anger at Pox has shut down her ears, her eyes, her brain. All the regular people cross the street. That leaves the six of us and we drift into a semicircle.
Alix, her chin jutting: “What did you say, a*shole?”
He puffs out his chest. “You heard me.”
“Say it again and I’ll…”
“You’ll what?”
He turns to his friends with a mocking tone. “She’ll what?” He repeats the rhyme, taunting. “Simple Simon met a pieman going to the fair.”
I sense Alix’s body poised to spring forward, and I guess Brendon senses it, too, because he tries to maneuver Pox out of the way. But getting Pox to do something that’s not his idea is like trying to move a bear.
“Leave it be,” Brendon urges. “Why get into it with some girl over nothing?”
“Go on, beat it. You too, Gnat. This is between her and me.”
Brendon hesitates, still trying to figure out a way to defuse the situation. I’m grateful to him for that, but it’s no use. When the light turns green again, he crosses the street with Gnat reluctantly following.
That’s all the time we need. That’s our cue. I feel Alix’s anger drawing me to her. It sucks me in and feeds my own. We don’t discuss the next step, or even make eye contact with each other. Our agreement is wordless and without thought, beyond the usual ways of communicating. We don’t think, we just do. The three of us surround him and cut him off from the curb. We edge in, guiding him backward until his back presses flat against the bricks of a building.
He throws up his palms. “What the hell are you doing? Am I gonna have to smack all of you? Don’t push me.”
Alix takes the lead. This is her injustice, her wrong to be righted. She hooks her elbow into the crook of my arm and Stephanie does the same on my other side. I am the center of the chain and I squeeze them close to me, feeling the pressure of Stephanie’s long thighbone and Alix’s solid hip. She sounds the first note. I join in on the second, Stephanie the third.
“Singing? What the hell? Why are you singing?” Pox asks.
That’s the last we hear of his repulsive voice. After that it’s nine notes, our notes, the amazing melody repeating itself. We’re in perfect harmony. We’re … in.
In.
I embody the true meaning of that simple preposition, two letters that are the source of all our power. This is what we do and how we do it. We are in his head. Dark and light and color and colorless and flashes of storm.
We know the direction to take, as if we’ve been handed a drawing of his brain that shows all the wiring.
We override his thoughts, reroute his feelings, hijack his emotions.
From our fingertips we shoot him full of regret.
He covers his ears, but he can’t drown out the voices.
With our combined breath we pump him full of guilt.
We punish him by making sure he punishes himself, the worst sentence of all.
He shakes his head, but he can’t shake off the knowledge of his own wrongs.
We use the strands of our wild hair to cross the wires of his thinking and shock him into seeing his true, hateful self.
We sing.
He moans.
He’s lost and we’re found.
One hundred and eight notes, and then we feel satisfied. We’ve done our job. It’s over.
A final shiver returns me to the ordinary world. I shake my head a couple of times to clear it. Everything is the way it was before—a full moon, a busy downtown, a traffic light that’s green again. A small crowd has gathered and they applaud politely. We must have sounded pretty awesome. A little girl, coaxed by her mom, lays a couple of quarters at our feet.
“That’s different music,” a man says, scratching behind his ear. “Can’t say whether I like it or not.” Some college kid asks: “You guys got a CD for sale?”
“Show’s over!” Alix announces. They see she’s not messing around, and everyone scatters.
Not everyone.
At a downtown corner on a perfectly ordinary October evening, Kai “Pox” Small, death-defying big-wave rider, major hypocrite, unapologetic insensitive sexist pig, stands with his shoulders caved in. He blinks several times, trying to get his bearings. He’s sweating through his T-shirt. He takes a step toward Alix, who throws up her fists in defense.
Only there’s no need for that because he bows his head and lets his arms dangle slack at his sides. “Alix, slug me, go ahead. I deserve it.”
At this point, Gnat—without Brendon, I note with disappointment—returns to collect his fearless leader. He assumes the apology he just overheard is some big joke. Only when he starts yucking it up, Pox whirls on him, tells him to “shut the hell up and apologize, too.”
“Dude!” Gnat snaps. Then, puzzled: “Dude?” With a swirl to us: “What the f*ck did you do to him? Something! You did something.”
Pox ignores his friend and continues to apologize, peering earnestly into Alix’s face. He runs his fingers through his hair, practically tears at it. “I’m such a jerk. I can’t believe I made fun of some retard kid. Your brother.”
“Not retard! Don’t call him that. Developmentally…” Alix checks with Stephanie, who nods in confirmation. “Different.”
“Don’t hate me, okay?” Pox is pleading, and in his open expression I see what he must have looked like as a little kid, the first time he got caught being naughty and couldn’t live with the shame and guilt. “Forgive me?”
Together, the three of us answer as one: “Maybe.”
I wonder how long this new Pox will last. An hour? A day? A week? Could it be forever?
The light is red, but Alix, Stephanie, and I cross anyway. We don’t even bother to check both ways. We know the cars will stop for us, and they do. No one even leans on a horn. It’s our turn.
As we continue down the street, I take a long drink from Stephanie’s water bottle. Being a Fury is dehydrating. When we pass an empty store window, I catch a glimpse of our reflections in the dusty, warped glass. We are three figures attached at the shoulders, stretched, distorted, and unrecognizable.