Everybody Sees the Ants by A. S. King

Author:A. S. King [King, A. S.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: JUV039230
ISBN: 9780316191814
Publisher: Hachette Book Group
Published: 2011-10-02T22:00:00+00:00

LUCKY LINDERMAN NEEDS SERIOUS HELP

Before my shower the next morning, I stare at the scab in the mirror. It’s still the exact shape of West Virginia, but it’s healing and peeling at the edges, and with each application of aloe, I can feel parts of it getting ready to flake off. The worst and thickest part, right over my cheekbone, is the exact shape of the Monongahela National Forest, too. I swear—I am not making this up.

In the shower, I think back to last night. Did I really go out with five girls? Five older girls? I retrieve their names. Ginny, of course. Shannon. And I remember Annie now, because of the story Ginny told me. The other two will have to be called Crew Cut in my head until further notice. The ants, who are lined up on the shower rail, say: Your memory sucks, Linderman.

When I come out of the bathroom, I check my watch. It’s eleven thirty. This has got to be the latest I’ve slept in months. My muscles are still stiff, but it feels good to be stiff. I get dressed and stop at the mirror to apply more aloe, and I slowly flake off the edges of scab that seem to want to come off. When I’m done, it’s the shape of Michigan. The mitten-shaped part, anyway.

I decide I should move my clothing to where Jodi wanted it—to get the good energy flowing in the room. I feel pretty positive today. I feel like a kid who has a friend. A kid who has a life.

And then I walk into the living room to find three people I’ve never seen before sitting next to Mom and Aunt Jodi, whose eyebrows form a concerned frown, staring at me.

I try to convince myself that these people are just visiting friends. But I learn through Jodi’s introductions that they are professionals Jodi has called in to help me. With that look on her face like someone peed on her granola, Mom makes the motion for me to sit down in the only chair left empty.

After a week of forced fake-smiling, I let my face fall into its natural scowl. I feel like going animal on these people—picking more of the scab and eating it, and then blowing my nose into my sleeve. I feel like squatting on the coffee table and taking a shit on the latest People magazine just to give them the show they came for. Crazy Boy Saved by Local Woman. Future School Shooting Averted.

“Do you always wear baggy clothes?” one asks.

“Do you always sleep this late?”

“Do you have trouble sleeping?”

“Do you eat three meals a day?”

“Are you bullied?”

“When was the last time you remember being happy?”

“Have you ever thought about suicide?”

“Didn’t you get in trouble at school last year?”

“What activities do you enjoy?”

“Do you have a job? What chores do you do around your house?”

“Why are you wearing that shirt? Do you support the POW/MIA cause?”

I am a shitstorm of sniper fire. “I am the POW/MIA cause,” I say.

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