We Are the Ants(54)

I looked at my clean hands. “Now I feel like a failure.”

Diego dipped his finger into a puddle of leftover sauce and smeared it down my nose. “Better.”

It took everything to resist reaching for my napkin to wipe it off. “If you say so.”

He stared at me, and for a moment it reminded me of the way Jesse would watch me when he thought I wasn’t looking, like I was the only person in the world worthy of his attention. Except Diego wasn’t Jesse. No one was. “Why a Thanksgiving barbecue?” I asked.

Diego balled up his napkin and tossed it onto his empty plate. “What comes to mind when you think of Thanksgiving?”

“Turkey and stuffing. Gravy. Disaster movies. My mom drinking too much wine. Green bean casserole.”

When I’d finished listing off all the regular Thanksgiving things I could recall, he said, “Oh. For me, it’s cat piss and Devil Dogs.”

I waited for Diego to elaborate, but he didn’t. He just sat across from me, running his finger around the edge of his dirty plate, refusing to look me in the eyes. “Come on,” I said, “you can’t leave me hanging like that.”

“It’s not important.”

“You know all kinds of stuff about me. Hell, you and half the world have seen me naked. You won’t tell me anything about your life before you moved here, you won’t tell me why you’re living with your sister instead of your parents. I don’t get you.”

Diego clenched his fists. “Would you let it go, Henry?”

“No.”

“Fine,” Diego said. “If you tell me more about the aliens, I’ll tell you why I was sent here.”

If he was betting I’d drop it rather than discuss the sluggers, he was going to lose. “Sometimes I ask the sluggers to take me with them instead of sending me back.”

“Why?”

“Because I hate it here.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m a joke, that’s why! I’m Space Boy, and I’ll never be anything else.” I hadn’t realized I’d raised my voice until a couple of Viviana’s friends glanced in our direction, but I didn’t care. Diego wanted answers, and I gave them to him.

Then Diego said, “But I like Space Boy,” and all the anger drained out of me.

“Your turn.”

Diego shook his head and leaned back in the grass. “I want to hear more about the aliens.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Fine. Ask your question.” His voice was flat.

“Did you smash the windows in Marcus’s car?” Up until the moment the question left my mouth, I was planning to ask why he’d been exiled to Calypso to live with his sister, but at the last second I changed my mind and immediately wished I hadn’t.

Diego’s mouth hung open, but he didn’t answer. And the longer he remained silent, the more nauseated I felt. I’d gone too far. I’d accused him, and I had no right. Diego had been nothing but nice to me, had given me no reason to suspect him, but that hadn’t stopped me. I should have kept my stupid questions to myself. I ruined everything. I should have stayed home. I needed air. “I have to go.” I ran inside to Diego’s bedroom and locked myself in his bathroom. The moment I was alone, I sat on the edge of the toilet and buried my face in my hands.

How could I have been so dumb? Despite knowing Diego wasn’t capable of reciprocating my feelings, I needed to know if he’d busted the windows of Marcus’s car, and what it meant if he had. I don’t even think I would have been upset if he were responsible.

I never thought I’d have feelings for anyone after Jesse, and I wanted to carve them out of my brain. I wanted to shove an ice pick through my eyes and give myself a transorbital lobotomy, scrape Diego from the inside of my skull. The best thing for me to do was go home and forget about Diego Vega.

When I’d pulled myself together, I stood at the sink and washed my face. The barbecue sauce was still on my nose; it looked like dried blood. I wet some toilet paper and used it to scrub the stain off.

Diego’s bathroom was messier and more disorganized than his bedroom. Inside the medicine cabinet were three kinds of deodorant, shaving cream, a razor, and two bottles of face wash. Globs of spent toothpaste were stuck to the side of the sink, and the shower was covered with a soapy film. My mom would have beaten me with the toilet brush if I ever let our bathroom get so filthy.

When I opened the door, I crashed into Diego. We hit the floor in a tangle of arms and legs. His elbow dug into my stomach, knocking the breath out of me.

“Sorry!” Diego said, laughter tingeing his voice.

“Just . . . It’s fine.” I disentangled myself from Diego, but he didn’t move.

“I came to find you so I could apologize.”

I already felt like an * for accusing Diego of smashing Marcus’s car windows and then running off, and now he was apologizing when he had nothing to be sorry for. “I should go.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Yeah, I do.”

“Henry, I’m sorry.” Diego grabbed my wrist when I tried to stand, and pulled me toward him. I opened my mouth to tell him to let go, but he swallowed my words. He pressed his lips to mine and wrapped his arms around my waist. Diego tasted like root beer and barbecue sauce. He smelled better than summer. Bigger than the ocean.