We Are the Ants(78)

“Everything all right, young man?” called Mr. Nabu. He was tough and stringy, like old celery, but his bright eyes missed nothing.

I walked toward Mr. Nabu’s house. “If you knew the world was ending and could prevent it, would you?”

Mr. Nabu set his newspaper in his lap. His bald head was speckled with liver spots, and his spectacles sat low on his nose. “It’s Christmas, young man, and I’m reading my newspaper alone on my front porch.”

“Merry Christmas, sir.” I nodded and trudged around to the side of the house to crawl in through the bathroom window.

? ? ?

Physicists theorize that up to 27 percent of the mass-energy content of the universe is composed of what they refer to as dark matter. Dark matter is nonreactive to light and has so far eluded all efforts to prove its existence. However, the existence of dark matter is widely accepted because it explains the discrepancies found between the mass of large astronomical objects and their gravitational effect. The argument for the existence of dark matter can be observed in the motions of galaxies. Most do not contain enough observable mass to support the gravitational forces necessary to hold them together. Much like my family. Sometimes I watch them and wonder how we all don’t fly apart.

The engagement was all anyone could talk about for the rest of the day. No one heard me when I accidentally tore down the shower curtain sneaking into the house. They didn’t even apologize for not waiting until I was awake to open presents. Every ten minutes, Nana gave me a sticky kiss on the cheek and told me how glad she was to see me. Charlie and Zooey couldn’t stop touching each other, and Mom spent nearly every minute in the kitchen, making trays of hors d’oeuvres a troupe of traveling acrobats couldn’t have finished.

I couldn’t wait to leave.

Mrs. Franklin must not have called the police to report me, though I jumped at every sound and spent hours peeking out the windows, waiting for a patrol car to arrive. Honestly, spending a few days in jail might not have been the worst thing to happen to me. When my mom and brother were tipsy enough that I knew they wouldn’t notice I was gone, I rode Audrey’s bicycle to Diego’s house. I stood at his front door, sweaty and stinky, clutching a bag of gifts.

Diego opened the door, wearing pajama bottoms decorated with cartoon elves, and a gray tank top. His hair was rumpled like he’d just woken up, even though it was mid-afternoon.

“I’m sorry.” Before Diego could tell me to leave, I rambled on. “Audrey smashed the windows and I should have believed you but I trusted Jesse and he kept secrets from me and killed himself and I don’t think I could ever go through something like that again.”

“I’m not Jesse.”

“I know.”

“I’m not going to kill myself.”

“I know.”

Diego stood in the doorway, blocking it with his whole body. I hoped he could forgive me, but I doubted my chances. “I wish I had smashed Marcus’s car windows. I wanted to smash his face for what he did to you. I will if he ever hurts you again . . .” He shook his head. “I think you were right about us just being friends. You’re still messed up over Jesse, and I’ve clearly got my own issues to work through.”

I couldn’t argue. Starting a relationship under the best of circumstances is difficult. For us, it would have been a disaster. That didn’t stop me from wanting to push Diego into the house and kiss him until the world ended. From imagining what a future might look like with him in it. But I couldn’t afford to think like that. I held up the bag. “Christmas gifts.”

“I got you something too.” Diego hesitated before standing aside to let me in.

“Where’s Viviana?”

“Her boyfriend’s house.”

“She left you alone on Christmas?”

“Nah,” Diego said. “We had breakfast and opened our presents earlier. She had to go do the Christmas thing with her boyfriend’s family.”

“Oh.”

“Wait here.” Diego left me in the living room, and I sat on the couch. He returned a moment later with a couple of wrapped packages that he set on top of the coffee table.

“You first.” I pulled the presents out of the bag and handed them to him.

“What’s this?” Diego tore the paper like a pro. None of that prissy trying-to-spare-the-paper-to-reuse-next-year stuff. He was a ripper, and I adored that. “I love Frida Kahlo.” Diego fingered the book’s cover before flipping through it, stopping at some of his favorite works.

“Your paintings remind me of hers.”

“It’s . . . perfect!” Diego sat with the book in his lap, just staring at it for a moment before opening the rest of his gifts. Along with the book, I got him a pair of real flip-flops, Doctor Who pajama pants, and a one-pound bag of cereal marshmallows. “What am I going to do with all these marshmallows?”

“I don’t know, but everyone should have a bag of emergency cereal marshmallows.” I pulled a last gift from the bottom of the bag.

“Henry!” Diego frowned but accepted the gift.

“The others were . . . you know . . . This one is special.”

Diego tore into it with the same zeal as the others but froze when he saw the front. It was a simple black journal with leather front and back covers, and pages with a deckle edge. But it wasn’t the journal that had caught his attention; it was what was etched into the front.