We Are the Ants (31 page)

We were both quiet until we reached Audrey's house. She parked and shut off the engine. I climbed out and walked to the end of her driveway. Audrey sat beside me.

“There's something I need to tell you, Henry.”

I wasn't in the mood to talk. Mrs. Franklin's face haunted me. The way she'd hardly seemed surprised to see me. How she'd disposed of Jesse like he'd never mattered. I hoped when the world ended, she would die terrified and alone. Even that was better than she deserved.

“Can I sleep here tonight?”

Audrey nodded. “Sure, but, Henry—”

“Whatever it is, it doesn't matter.”

“Diego didn't smash up Marcus's car. I did.” She spit out the words fast, sending them hurtling toward me like photons from the sun, and I didn't see them coming until they blinded me.

“You?”

“Me.”

“But . . . why?”

Audrey shrugged like committing a felony was no big deal. “Marcus McCoy is a dick, and you're my best friend.”

I was still trying to wrap my head around the idea that Audrey had busted the windows of Marcus's car. For me. “You could have gotten arrested.”

Maybe it was only the shadows, but she loomed over me in her driveway that night. She carried herself like a warrior, and spoke as fiercely. “I did it, and I'd do it again.”

I leaned my head on Audrey's shoulder. “Thank you.”

The phenomenon is first observed in France. The year is 1994. Bees exposed to a new type of pesticide known as neonico­ti­noids exhibit confusion and odd behavior. Bees often abandon the hive, leading to the collapse of the entire colony.

In 2006, United States beekeeper David Hackenberg reports to Congress on an unexplained phenomenon known as Colony Collapse Disorder (CCD) that had spread to over 70 percent of the bee populations in the country. The cause is yet unknown, but there is speculation linking it to pesticides, fungicides, mites, and parasites.

In 2013, CCD contributes to the deaths of 60 percent of all hives. Scientists speak out against the use of certain neonicotinoids, and some countries limit or ban their use on crops, but the rate of collapse remains unchanged.

On 29 January 2016, the last hive of honeybees, located on an almond farm in California, succumbs to CCD.

The price of orange juice skyrockets overnight. Blueberries and almonds disappear from shelves. Onions become impossible to purchase. Within the first year, many common fruits simply vanish. Their juices, stored in tanks, become more precious than caviar. Pumpkins become too expensive to carve on Halloween.

The effect of the loss of honeybees ripples to other crops. Coffee becomes a luxury few can afford. Worldwide food shortages lead to riots. The economies of states and countries that depend on honeybee-pollinated crops collapse shortly after the hives.

The United States is the first. Unable to feed its people, unemployment soars to more than 50 percent. Disease runs rampant because few can afford health care, but starvation remains the number-one killer. Other nations soon follow.

War, famine, and death become the rule of the planet. The poison that caused the collapse of the honeybees spreads to the human population, and, just as the bees did, humanity goes slowly mad.

Grief is an ocean, and guilt the undertow that pulls me beneath the waves and drowns me.

I woke up in Audrey's bed, clutching my throat, gasping for breath. In my dreams I was drowning. I was in Jesse's bedroom. It still looked the way it had when he was alive, except the ocean was rushing in to fill it. I tried to keep my head above water, but Jesse was at the bottom, pulling me down.

Light streamed through the windows. Audrey was deep asleep, hugging her pillow, a shirt covering her face. It didn't feel like Christmas morning. I wanted to close my eyes and sleep until the end of the world, but I needed to go home before my mom realized I wasn't there.

Rather than wake up Audrey, I left her a note and borrowed her bicycle. Her house was only a couple of miles from mine, and the ride gave me time to think. A little about Jesse, but mostly about Diego. I'd screwed everything up. He was right that I shouldn't have had to ask him if he was responsible for smashing Marcus's windows. I should have trusted him. I wasn't sure if he'd accept my apology, but I needed to try.

When I reached home, I was sweaty and out of breath. I dropped the bike in front of the duplex. Mr. Nabu was watching me from across the street. I waved; he waved back. I wondered how many times he'd seen me sneak home in the morning wearing nothing but my underwear or a trash can lid.

I figured I'd peek through the window to make sure the rest of the house was still asleep before I snuck inside. When we were kids, Mom had discouraged me and Charlie from waking up at dawn on Christmas morning by instituting a rule that the first person out of bed had to make breakfast for everyone else. By the time we hit our teens, it was a competition to see who could stay in bed the longest. Usually, we didn't get around to opening presents until after noon.

I eased into the bushes and spied through the window. To my surprise, everyone was awake and gathered in the living room. Mom must have picked Nana up from the home early, and they sat on the couch together. Zooey was relaxing in the recliner next to the sofa, and Charlie had his back to me, digging around for something under the Christmas tree.

Mom clapped her hands and held up a chef's knife. The knife I bought for her. They were opening gifts without me. Had they gone into my room to see if I was awake? Did they even know I wasn't home? I was about to storm inside when Charlie stood in the center of the room. I couldn't hear what he was saying, but Zooey's hand flew to her mouth as Charlie took a knee. He slipped a ring on Zooey's finger, and she threw her arms around him and kissed him. I imagined her shouting, “Yes! Yes, I'll marry you,” acting like it was a surprise even though she had to have been expecting it.

I couldn't believe he'd proposed to Zooey, and I'd missed it. He hadn't even waited until I was awake. They were opening presents and proposing without me.

“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 mid­afternoon.

“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.

REMEMBER THE PAST,

LIVE THE PRESENT,

WRITE THE FUTURE.

Diego traced the words. I couldn't tell if he liked it or not. He'd practically gone catatonic.

“I thought you could use it to record all the stuff you want to do,” I said. “I don't know. It's stupid. If you hate it, I can take it back.” Of course, I couldn't take it back because of the etching, but whatever.

“Thank you, Henry.” It was only three words, but it felt like more to me. It felt like a wish that we could go back and forget I'd accused him of breaking Marcus's windows, that we could forget about his past and my Jesse and meet at a time before tragedy had consumed either of us. But that wasn't possible, and this was all we had. For these last thirty-five days we could be friends, and that would have to be enough.

Diego handed me my gifts.

I looked at the wrap job, and grinned. “That was so sweet of you to let those poor orphans with no fingers do your wrapping for you.”

“Whatever,” Diego said. “It's abstract wrapping. You just don't understand my art.” There were four badly wrapped gifts in all. A book about rockets and space travel written in 1948, a retractable fountain pen, a bottle of dark red ink that looked like blood, and a star chart.

“You shouldn't have done all this.”

Diego grinned like crazy. “There's one more.” He handed me an envelope. “Open it.”