Antsy Does Time

“Wish I had thought of it,” I shouted after him. Actually, I had thought of it, but I wouldn’t sink so low as to get him a cruel gift. Besides, I didn’t want to be seen buying blue lipstick. Even if no one saw me, there are surveillance cameras.

I found Kjersten up in her room watching Moeba, a zany cartoon about ethnically diverse single-celled organisms in Earth’s primordial ooze. It seemed odd that she’d be watching this. In fact, she was so absorbed, it took her a moment to notice I was there.

“Antsy!”

“Hi.” It came out sounding like a one-word apology.

She stood up and gave me a hug. “You’re not having much luck with photographers lately, are you?” I could see the special Antsy edition of the New York Post on her desk.

“No,” I admitted, “and now there’s an animated version on the YouTube.”

“Could be worse,” she said, although downloadable e-humiliation is about as low as it gets.

The moment became awkward, and she glanced back at the TV, where Moeba was punching out a dim-witted Paramecium.

“I used to love this show,” she said.

“So did I,” I told her. “When I was, like, eight.”

She sighed. “Things were simpler then.” Then she turned off the TV. “So, is that for me?”

“Oh ... yeah,” I said, handing her the gift. “Merry Christmas.” Again, I sounded like I was apologizing for something. It was a

“Yours is still under the tree,” she said. I hadn’t even noticed a tree downstairs.

She opened up her package, to reveal a NeuroToxin jacket.

“It’s from their Bubonic Nights tour. Look—Jaxon Beale’s autograph is embroidered on the sleeve.”

“I noticed,” Kjersten said. “I love Jaxon Beale!”

In case you’ve been living on a desert island, Jaxon Beale, former guitarist for Death Crab, is the guitarist and lead singer of NeuroToxin.

She thanked me, and put the jacket on. It looked good on her, but then, what didn’t? It made me feel good that I could, at least for a few minutes, break her out of a world of repossessed cars, furious neighbors, and a brother on deathwatch.

“You want to do something today?’ she asked.

To be honest, I hadn’t given the day much thought beyond handing her the jacket. “Sure,” I said. “How about a movie?”

“Something fu

“Why don’t you pick—there’s a whole bunch of new movies at the Mondoplex.” Then I added, “You can even drive. I’m over that whole macho thing about riding shotgun with my girlfriend.”

This was, I realized, the first time I used the word “girlfriend” with her. I watched to see if her reaction would be positive, negative, or neutral. It was negative, but not because of the word “girlfriend.” Her problem was with the word “drive.”

“We can’t drive. My dad borrowed my car this morning.”

I wondered if he had borrowed it to go gambling, but decided not to ask. “Your mom could drive us ...”

“My mom’s spending the holiday with family in Sweden, and she parked her car at the airport.”

Why, I wondered, would she choose to pay for airport parking instead of just leaving her car for her husband to use? Again, I decided it was best not to ask. The whole family was a can of worms waiting to happen, and I, for one, was not going to supply the can opener.

“Sweden, huh?” I said. “Sounds like fun—why didn’t you go with her?”

“It’s Sweden, and it’s winter—isn’t that reason enough?”

“I bet there’d be snow.”

“Snow, and ice, and eighteen hours of darkness. I hate it.”

“Well, I’m sure it’s a whole lot better than Christmas in Brooklyn.” She shrugged gloomily, so I tried a different tack. “Well, I’m glad you didn’t go, because now we can see each other all vacation.”

That made her smile, and it wasn’t just a polite smile, it was a real one. I silently reveled in the fact that she actually did want to spend time with me. We bundled up against the windy afternoon, braved the neighborhood dust bowl, and took a bus to the Mondoplex.

***

For several reasons, I will not give a blow-by-blow description of our darkened-movie-theater experience. First of all, it’s none of your business, and secondly, anything you think happened is probably better than what actually did.

But for those of you who have never experienced the phenomenon called a movie-theater date, there are a few general things I can tell you:

1. Your hand completely falls asleep after about fifteen minutes around a girl’s shoulder, especially if she’s taller than you. It’s better just to hold hands.

2. While holding hands, you can’t manage both a tub of popcorn and a drink. One of them is bound to spill. Pray it’s the popcorn.

3. If you ever come within six inches of actually kissing, you will suddenly become more interesting than the movie to the entire audience, including one creep with a laser pointer, who you’ll be ready to kill long before the credits roll.

As for the movie itself, it wasn’t the movie I expected Kjersten to choose. I thought Kjersten might pick a love story, or a foreign film or something . . . instead she chose this lowbrow teen comedy that I might have gone to see with Howie and Ira, but never thought I’d see with her. It wasn’t even one of the better lowbrow movies either. I mean, I’ve enjoyed my share of amazingly stupid movies, but this one was so bad, and so unfu

Eighty-six agonizing minutes later, the movie was over and we were walking down the street holding hands—the first time we actually held hands while publicly walking. She didn’t quite tower over me, but the difference was enough for me to be self-conscious about it. Every time someone nearby laughed, I involuntarily snapped my head around like maybe it was directed at us. Kjersten had no such worries.

“Did you like the movie?” she asked.

“It was all right, I guess.”

“I thought it was fu

’Yeah.” I searched for something worth saying. “When the fat guy got stuck in the Jell-O-filled swimming pool naked, that was fu

’You didn’t like it,” she said, reading right through me.

“Well, it’s just that... I don’t know . . . you’re on the debate team and everything. I thought you’d want to see a movie that would, uh ... broaden my horizons.”

“I’m happy with your horizons just where they are.”

I should have felt good about that. After all, it was unconditional acceptance from my girlfriend . . . but like Gu

Yeah, yeah, I know, guys aren’t supposed to think about stuff like that. I should be happy that I’m successfully playing out of my league, batting a thousand, and have earned bragging rights. I guess that was enough at first, but not anymore. I blame Lexie. She was the one who first broadened my horizons.

Kjersten’s car was in the driveway when we got home, which meant her father was there. I would have gone in, but Kjersten didn’t want to make any waves. She kissed me quickly at the door, ducked inside for a moment, and came out with a long, ski

And from inside I heard Gu

She growled in frustration, and handed me the box, accidentally knocking the wreath off the door. Quickly she scrambled to put it back up, but not quickly enough. I got a clear glimpse of the notice pasted to the front door that had been hidden by the wreath. She knew I saw it—but what could she do? She made sure the wreath was hung firmly on the nail, and pretended it hadn’t happened. “See you tomorrow?” she said.