We Are the Ants(68)

“Would you? Press it?”

It should have been an easy answer. It was true that I didn’t want to live in a world without Jesse—I’m not sure any of us deserved to live in a world where Jesse Franklin felt like killing himself was the only solution—and if I didn’t press the button, I’d never have to worry about Diego leaving me like Jesse and my father had, Charlie and Zooey wouldn’t have to watch their daughter grow up in an increasingly hostile world, Nana wouldn’t have to lose her memories, and Mom wouldn’t be so sad anymore. If I didn’t press the button, the future would never disappoint any of us. But, despite how hard I fought him, Diego made me curious about my future. About our future together.

“I don’t know,” I said. Before I could explain, laughter echoed through the theater as a group of people rounded the corner at the front. I recognized Marcus immediately. “Shit.” I slid down in my seat.

“What?” Diego craned his neck. Marcus was with Adrian, and they each had their arm around a different girl. I think one of the girls was Maya Anderson, but I couldn’t place the other.

I kept still and quiet, hoping to remain invisible, but Marcus zeroed in on me like I was tagged with a tracker and yelled, “Look, it’s Space Boy! And he brought his girlfriend. That’s one ugly bitch, Space Boy.” Adrian and the girls cracked up and took seats a few rows ahead of us, but Marcus lingered in the aisle. His clothes were winkled and his cheeks were flushed. I could practically smell the booze on him.

Diego elbowed me in the ribs. “Problem?”

“No.”

The lights dimmed, the projector lit up the screen, and I ate popcorn, but I don’t remember anything about the movie. I spent two hours watching Marcus and Adrian out of the corner of my eye. When the show ended, I waited in my seat until only Diego and I remained in the theater.

“You want to talk about it?”

“Nope.”

“Want me to slash their tires?”

I tried to laugh it off, but there was a scary intensity to Diego’s voice that made me think he wasn’t joking. “No. It’s nothing. Really.”

Diego nodded, but I doubted he believed me.

We walked next door to Barnaby’s, an old-style arcade, where we played Skee-Ball and avoided talking about what had happened in the theater. Finally Diego said, “Listen, if you’re going to let that guy ruin our night, I’d rather go home.”

His bluntness caught me off guard, and I felt like an *. I rolled the last ball and walked away without bothering to see where it landed. Diego followed me to a table that reeked of fries and grease and baby wipes, and sat across from me.

“It’s always been like that,” I said. “People calling me names, making me feel like I don’t belong. Before Space Boy, it was fag or knob gobbler or the Ass Pirate Roberts. My personal fave was Henry Diarrhea.”

Diego raised an eyebrow. “Henry Diarrhea?”

“I had a nervous stomach in middle school.”

“Oh.” He tried to catch my eye. “Those names, they’re not who you are.”

“I’m Space Boy. I’ll never be anyone else.”

“You’re whoever you want to be.”

“Come on,” I said. “That’s bullshit and you know it.” A mother with young kids scowled at me from two tables over.

Diego leaned his head back and sighed. I figured I’d finally done it. I’d convinced him I was damaged goods, not worth the time or effort he’d invested in me. In a way, I was relieved. I could stop pretending the possibility existed that we might have a future. My future died with Jesse, and I was killing time while the rest of the world caught up.

“Before I moved to Calypso,” Diego said, “I spent one year, ten months, and ninety-three days in prison.”

That was definitely not what I’d expected Diego to say, and I was sure I’d misheard him. “What?”

“Juvenile detention, actually.” Diego’s eyes, so like the slugger’s skin, grew distant and hard. “I should have told you sooner. I wanted to tell you.”

I had so many questions, but the first one to come out was, “Why?”

“It’s complicated.” Diego traced lines on the table with a dab of partially dried ketchup. “I was thirteen and angry and everything was so f*cked up. I’ll be on probation until I’m twenty-one. No drinking, no drugs—I can’t even get a speeding ticket, or they’ll lock me up again.”

I’d sensed darkness in Diego, a stifled rage hidden behind broad smiles and laughter, but I’d have believed Audrey was a criminal before Diego Vega. His confession clobbered me like a sucker punch. I felt as blindsided as I had in the days after Jesse’s suicide, when I began to learn how truly broken the boy I thought I knew everything about had been. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because the past isn’t important. History is just a way of keeping score, but it doesn’t have to be who we are.”

“Great,” I said, laughing at the absurdity. “I’m Space Boy, and you’re a criminal.”

Diego squeezed my hand. “We’re not words, Henry, we’re people. Words are how others define us, but we can define ourselves any way we choose.”

I pulled my hand away. “Is that why you dress so oddly?”