We Are the Ants(73)

Charlie cast me a questioning glance, but I was clueless. “Yeah,” he said. “Okay, Mom.”

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“I quit Tutto Fresco.”

My stomach dropped. I’d spent my savings on Christmas gifts. I began mentally calculating how much money I could give Mom to help with the bills if I returned them. And maybe I could get a job.

Charlie said, “You quit? Right before Christmas?”

“Yes.” Mom sipped her vodka tonic. She sounded unconcerned, but her jaw muscles twitched, and she clutched her drink glass so tightly, I worried she might break it. “But don’t you boys worry. I’ve got a new job.”

“Where?” As soon as I asked, a smile blossomed on Mom’s face, the tension fled. “Here? You’re working here?”

Mom nodded. “I start after the new year.”

“You think the tips will be better?” Charlie asked.

“I’m not waiting tables,” Mom said. “I’m the new sous chef.”

“Congratulations, Mrs. Denton,” Diego said, unaware of how big a deal it was. Actually, I was glad he said it because I was too blown away to speak.

Mom glowed as she described how nervous and tongue-tied she’d been during the interview. She thought she’d blown it because of the way the owner’s attention had wandered, but rather than give up, she marched into the kitchen and prepared a spicy tuna tartare. All it took was one bite, and the job belonged to her. It was a gutsy move, and I smiled thinking about how scared she must have been to ignore the head chef yelling at her for being in his kitchen while she chopped and sliced her way into a new job.

“I’m really proud of you, Mom.” In fact, I’d never been more proud.

Zooey said, “What made you decide to go for it?”

Mom smiled at me. “Someone gave me a mirror.”

? ? ?

After dinner, Diego and I meandered down the street in front of my house. Neither of us said much. The silence grew between us like a weed pushing through the cracks in a sidewalk. Finding out that my mom had quit her job waiting tables to follow her dream was huge, but Diego occupied my thoughts. I wondered who he’d been before he was locked away, and who his time in juvenile detention had turned him into. My Diego—with his carefree grin and slugger-green eyes—hardly seemed capable of hurting anyone, but he’d admitted to beating his father so badly that he’d broken his bones. Dinner had left me with more questions than answers. Was Diego a nice boy who sometimes lost his temper or a monster who’d mastered pretending to be nice?

“Your mom’s cool,” Diego said.

“Sorry about the interrogation.”

“At least she didn’t pull out my fingernails or electrocute my genitals.”

“She’s probably saving that for next time.”

The weather had finally turned cooler, though it still didn’t feel like Christmas. I grew up in Florida, where it’s a miracle if it gets cold enough to need a hoodie, but Christmas just doesn’t feel right without snow and hot chocolate and a roaring fire. I suppose television and movies have brainwashed me. Or maybe we’re just born with some beliefs in our bones. “How come you never told me about your dad?”

Diego stopped in the middle of the road. I stood beside him, unsure what to do next. The houses on my street were decorated with bright holiday lights, displaying their glowing Santas and candy canes, but it still felt like Diego and I were alone in the world.

He started walking back toward my house, and when the silence was almost too much to bear, Diego said, “You know that painting you like?” I nodded, remembering the bird clawing at the boy’s heart, and the last word frozen on his dead lips. “I painted that the night before I reported to juvie. The judge had accepted my plea agreement, and I was living with my uncle because I couldn’t go back to my parents’ house. It was going to be my last night of freedom for a long time—I should have gone out with my friends or spent time with Viviana—but I spent the whole night painting. That was the worst day of my life, and that painting was me on the worst day of my life.” Diego knuckled tears from the corner of his eyes.

“Maybe that’s not how I see myself now—some days, I don’t know—but it’s how everyone else sees me—my family, my friends, my sister. Everyone who knows the truth.” Diego stopped walking and turned to me. “I never wanted you to see me that way.”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“I almost killed my dad!” Diego shouted. He clenched his fists and bit his lip. He trembled and shook, and I didn’t know how to help him. “When it comes to the people I care about, everything gets messed up in my head. I don’t know who I am, but I know who I don’t want to be.”

We stood in front of my duplex. Light peeked through the curtains of my living room window, and I thought I saw my mom’s shadow. I couldn’t look at Diego without imagining his dead-eyed stare as he attacked his father, without wondering if he’d enjoyed the sound of cracking bones or smiled when he saw the blood on his hands. “Did you smash the windows of Marcus’s car?”

“If you have to ask, then my answer won’t matter.” Diego’s voice was flat, and he wouldn’t look me in the eyes. He sat on the hood of his car, fidgeting with his keys.