Antsy Does Time

“Great... uh ... yeah . .. uh ... right.” 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. “A movie’s a good choice,” I told her. “It’s dark, so people you know won’t see us together.”

“Why would that matter?”

“Well, you know—you being older and all.”

“Antsy,” she said, in a lecturing tone that really made her sound older, “that doesn’t matter to me.”

“Well, good,” I said, enjoying the prospect of walking into the multiplex with Kjersten. “And anyway, a movie-theater date will give me lots of great opportunities to be embarrassed.”

“I certainly hope so,” 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.

“I’m sorry about my father,” she said.

I shrugged, playing dumb. “He didn’t do anything.”

“He came home,” she said. “These days, that’s enough.”

Even though I was curious, I didn’t want to ask what she meant, just in case she didn’t want to tell. I looked at the mural, giving her time to gather her thoughts. Then she said, “He was a partner in a law firm, but a few months ago the firm fell apart. He hasn’t worked since.”

“But he’s gone all the time—what does he do all day, look for work?”

And Kjersten said, “We don’t know.”

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 Ümlaut was one step removed from reality; the way they dealt with Gu

My own father’s arrival at home later that same night didn’t raise the homeland security index, as it did in the Ümlaut household. That was mainly because everyone but me was already in bed.

“Hi, Antsy,” he said as he shuffled into the kitchen. “You’re up late.”

“Just came down for a drink,” I told him, even though I’d been stalking around the house all night with thoughts of Kjersten and Gu

“I heard your friend is real sick,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

That surprised me. “I didn’t know you knew about it.”

’Your sister keeps me informed on things.”

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 KO’d 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 Gu

As I went to bed that night, I thought about Mr. Ümlaut, 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.

“I want to make sure you’re free on Saturday the nineteenth,” she said.

“Let me check with my social secretary.” I glanced over at some fat guy sitting next to me on the bus. “Yeah, I’m free.” 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, “My parents are flying me to the Seychelles, to spend the holidays with them,” and she added “again,” as if it would make me feel better to know she was legitimately embarrassed by her lap of luxury. “They haven’t bothered to visit since the summer, so I have to go—but before I do, I’ve pla

The phone signal kept going in and out—all I heard was something about a team of engineers and lots of steel cable.

“Sounds like fun,” I told her. Sure, I could do it. It’s not like “vacation” was in my family’s vocabulary since the restaurant opened. Then she got to the real reason for her call.

“Oh, and by the way, I’m having di

By “the restaurant,” I knew she meant Crawley’s, her grandfather’s first restaurant. By “you’re invited,” she could have meant a whole lot of things.

“Just me?” I asked.

“No. You... and a date ... if you like.”

Now I knew what “you’re invited” actually meant. “Wow—an invitation to a five-star restaurant for me and a date. Wouldn’t it be easier to put one of those electronic tags on my ear before you release me into the wild?”

She huffed into the phone.

“Admit it—you just want to keep track of me.”

She didn’t deny it, she just continued the hard sell. “Don’t you think whatserface will be impressed if you take her out for a fancy lobster di

“How do you know it’s our first date?”

“Is it?”

“Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t.”

She huffed again. I was really enjoying this.

“C’mon,” she said, “are you going to turn down a free meal at one of Brooklyn’s most expensive restaurants?” “Ooh! Manipulating me with money,” I teased. “You’re sounding more and more like your grandfather every day.” “Oh, shut up!”

“Admit it—you’re curious to know what kind of girl would kiss me in a school hallway.”

At last she caved. “Well, do you blame me? And besides, I really want you to meet Raoul. It’s important to me.” “Why? It’s not like you need my approval to be dating him.”

“Well,” she said after a moment’s thought, “I’ll give you mine, if you give me yours.”

Lexie was right about me not being able to turn down the invitation. She had pushed my buttons, and we both knew it. It wasn’t 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 principal’s office for crimes unknown. People saw the yellow slip and reflexively leaned away.

This was my first experience in a high school principal’s office. I don’t know what I was expecting that would be different from middle school. Fancier chairs? A minibar? I wasn’t scared, like I used to be when I was younger—I was more a

Our principal, Mr. Sinclair, tried to be an intimidating administrator, but he just couldn’t sell it. It was his hair that undermined him every step of the way. Everyone called it “The Magic Comb-over.” 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.