Dreaming of Antigone (6 page)

CHAPTER 11

Dammit.

Alex is already sitting in the library when I get there. I ignore him and go up to Verla's desk. I pull the astronomy journal out of my bag and slide it back to her. “Thanks for letting me borrow this.”

She grins. “Did you replace your eyepiece yet?”

“No,” I say, avoiding Alex's gaze. “I found a used one on eBay for about a hundred dollars. But I never bothered to tell my parents I broke it.”

“But accidents happen,” Verla says. “Surely they'll understand. Is your birthday coming up soon?”

I shake my head. “September.” At least that's closer than Christmas.

“Did you see the full moon last night? It was gorgeous, even without a telescope,” Verla says. “Right around ten, ten thirty, there was a bright star just below it, over in the western sky. Do you know what star that was? Or was it a planet? Or a comet, maybe?”

“Jupiter,” I say. I did get a glance at him last night before I went to sleep.

“Cool!” Verla beams. “I knew you'd know.”

I haven't told her about my plans for the Lyrid shower. It's going to be tricky enough sneaking out of the house and driving somewhere out of the city where the sky is dark enough to see the meteors. There are no true dark skies over Georgia, but GSU's astronomy department has an observatory in a state park less than an hour south of here. I've been to the observatory once on a field trip in elementary school, and I think I can drive there easily at night.

The best part is that Mom and Craig have a home builders convention in Atlanta that week. Grandma Lydia is supposed to come and stay with me that week, to make sure I take my medicine and don't fall in the shower and don't sneak boys into the house. And Grandma Lydia has sharper hearing than anyone else I know in my family. But she also goes to bed early and rises before five. I'll be back home long before then.

I sit down and start working on the stack of poetry books, not saying anything to Alex. He is busy texting on his phone and not doing his work. But Verla doesn't seem to notice.

I finish cataloging a book of Charles Bukowski, then two collections of Elizabeth Barrett Browning, while Alex continues to text. I read a biography about Browning once and learned she was an invalid for most of her life, with some strange malady that the doctors of her time could not diagnose. I wonder if she had seizures.

Alex sighs, frustrated at something, and throws his phone down on the desk. He grabs a book and slams it down next to his computer, opening it to the title page.

I glance over at the book's title. “What did Miss Emily ever do to you?”

He shoves the book away. “That goth chick just depresses me with her imaginary love affairs.”

I can't let him get away with insulting Emily Dickinson. Even if her poems are depressing. I glare at him. “You're putting those labels on wrong. They won't scan properly that way.”

“Don't be mental,” Alex snarls.

“Don't be an ass hat.” I cringe at my not-so-sparkling wit. And having to steal insults from Tris.

Alex does not answer, ignoring me as he catalogs the Emily Dickinson book into the system. He remains silent as he slams the book shut and grabs another one.

“Someone like you just wouldn't get poems by someone like her.”

“Someone like me? What makes you think you know me?” he asks quietly.

There's more bitterness in his voice now than I've ever heard before. “What makes you think I don't?” I continue to amaze myself at my own sheer lack of cleverness.

Alex seems unimpressed. “For starters, I am not falling off the wagon, despite what everyone is saying. I do not smoke, drink, snort, or ingest any illegal substance anymore. I'm clean.”

“Then why did you start in the first place?” If only he'd been sober last year, maybe my sister would still be here.

He rubs his forehead. “Because I thought it was what I needed to do. Because I thought that was how all the good songwriters get inspired.”

I can only stare at him as he bares his soul to me. It makes me feel imposed upon. I really don't want to know him any more than I already do. “That is the stupidest thing I've ever heard.”

“Would it be more acceptable to you if I said my dad never loved me and my moms beat the shit out of me? That I never had a normal childhood and sought love in the bottom of a bottle of rum?”

I roll my eyes. “Sounds more likely.” But now I'm not so sure. And I can't keep myself from asking, “Did you really think you could be the next John Lennon by getting high or drunk?”

He shrugs and stares at the pen he is tapping against the table. “That's the way my dad does it.”

“Your dad is a musician too?” I don't know why this astonishes me. It's like he just opened the door to a strange and mysterious place. Alexland. No wonder everyone calls him Pluto.

“I used to spend my summers with him and his wife in Memphis. Until the social worker found out they were letting me smoke pot.” He looks over at me, and I swear the sneer on his face makes him look like a demonic Elvis. “And what were you doing the summer you were twelve? Going to Six Flags with your perfect family and sharing secrets with your sister? Because your life was perfect before I came and turned your sister into a drug addict, right?”

“No, but we were happy enough. And we didn't go to Six Flags. We went to Disney World.”

He doesn't answer. He picks up another book and starts typing again. Every few minutes, he stops to check something on his phone.

I know I should leave him alone. I should go back to my own pile of books and focus on finishing today's work. The book I pick up next is an Amy Lowell collection. I flip through it and my eyes fall upon “Fireworks.”

I want to giggle. What would he think if he found this on the desk in Mrs. Davis's class tomorrow? He'd know who his fellow vandal was for certain. If he hasn't already guessed.

But do we actually hate each other? I glance over at him as he scowls at his phone.

I have no idea how he feels about me, but yes, I can definitely say I hate Alex Hammond.

CHAPTER 12

Trista and Natalie are leaving soccer practice, when my library work is finished. Natalie waves as they both wander over to where I'm waiting for my mom. Craig had to meet with builders in Atlanta this afternoon, so they must have practiced without him. It would have been nice to bum a ride home with him, instead of waiting out here where I might run into Alex again.

“We're going to Rock 'n' Roll Graveyard tomorrow night,” Natalie says, still bouncing with energy even after two hours of chasing a ball across a field. “And you are coming with us.”

“I am?”

She nods. “No excuses this time. You need to get out and socialize more. You're wasting away inside that dark and scary library.”

I shrug. “They have fluorescent lights. And sometimes Verla feeds us.”

“Us?” Trista asks. “Who all's serving time with you?”

I groan. I'll never hear the end of it once they find out. Alex comes out the front door and actually runs into Natalie on his way to the parking lot.

“Ouch!” she says, rubbing her arm.

Trista's eyes grow huge as we all stare at him, stalking off without saying a word to any of us. He heads off campus toward Broad Street. He must be walking to his moms' café.

“Mr. I'm-Hot-but-Anti-Social-in-a-Not-So-Adorable-Way?” she asks, looking back at me.

I shrug. “We have settled into a comfortably frosty working relationship. He doesn't talk to me and I don't talk to him. It works. Anyway, I thought it wasn't safe to go to the Graveyard anymore.”

Trista smiles. “They put up a few more ‘No Trespassing' signs and some yellow tape, but you can still get over the fence.”

The abandoned private cemetery used to be a popular spot for bringing dates and booze. Part of the thrill is the possibility you will hear or see one of the alleged ghosts. Or possibly even cops. Certainly not the tribe of albinos the older kids used to tell us lived out there.

Supposedly a singer from a 1950s band who was caught cheating with his manager's wife shot himself and was buried in this cemetery. On hot summer nights, they say you can hear him singing. Or you might see an Indian princess whose tribe was massacred on this land by a warring tribe.

I shake my head. “I don't think my mom will let me go out.”

“She will if she thinks you're spending the night with me,” Natalie says. “My mom already asked your mom.”

“And does your mom know we're going to the cemetery?” I ask.

“Of course not. She thinks we're going to see Calcifer play.”

I want to roll my eyes again, but my head is starting to hurt. “Anything but that.”

Natalie giggles. “They're not that bad.”

She's right. The one time I did see one of their shows, Calcifer kinda rocked. But they were all stoned and only sounded good when they were playing their own stuff. Alex's stuff.

Trista jumps up as her older sister pulls into the circle in front of the school. “Come on, Webb. You can ride with us.”

“My mom is coming,” I say. “But thanks.”

“See you tomorrow.” Trista opens the passenger door of her sister's red Firebird, and Natalie pulls the seat forward to squeeze into the back. Her sister doesn't wave or say hi. She's busy yelling at someone on her cell phone. She is in the nursing program at the local junior college. She is even more of a bitch than Trista.

Mom pulls up not long after Trista and Natalie leave. I'm careful not to let my backpack look too heavy. She looks tired and is trying to get hold of Craig on her cell phone.

Giving up, she pushes the button to disconnect. “How was your day?”

“Fine, how was yours?” I ask.

“Busy. I worked through lunch so I'm starving. I thought we'd eat out since it's just the two of us tonight. Have a girls' night out.” She smiles at me hopefully.

“Sounds good. What are you craving?” I ask. “Thai?”

She shakes her head. “Had Thai yesterday for lunch. I keep hearing good things about that Indigo Dragon café over by Broad. My secretary said they have wonderful vegetarian burgers. How about we try that?”

My appetite disappears. And it's not because she wants me to eat tofu. She doesn't know about the Hammonds.

The Indigo is not far from our school, and she's already pulling in to one of the parking spaces near the front door. She was lucky getting the spot. It looks like they're busy, and it's not even six thirty yet.

She notices my lack of enthusiasm, and her face falls as she turns off the engine. “Or you could get a regular hamburger, if you wanted. Or we can just get takeout if you're not feeling up to it.”

“Mom, that's not it. Alex Hammond's parents own this café.”

Her hands fall from the steering wheel to her lap. “Oh.”

She's silent for several moments. She stares straight ahead, because I've reminded her of the daughter she lost all over again. Why didn't I keep my mouth shut?

“Do you think his parents will be here? They wouldn't come out of the kitchen and try to talk to us, would they?”

Oh dear lord. “Mom, Alex works at the counter.
He
would have to talk to us.” Then again, with the mood he was in earlier today, maybe he wouldn't.

“That boy doesn't bother you at school, does he?”

I want to laugh. “No. We leave each other alone. I pretend he doesn't exist and he pretends I don't exist.”

“Why would you bother him?”

I stare at her. “Well, I do kinda look like his dead girlfriend.”

She sighs and turns the engine back on. “I guess we can just make sandwich wraps at home. I think there's still some tuna fish in the fridge.”

Ick. “No, wait,” I say. “What if we go to the Mexican place across the street? They used to have really good nachos.”

She glances across the street at Lupita's Taqueria. “I suppose. I could go for some veggie quesadillas.”

“Great.” I hop out of the car before she changes her mind. I know it's a minute possibility, but what if Alex sees us outside and thinks I asked my mom to bring me here?

I hurry her across the street, dodging traffic. I don't feel safe until we're inside Lupita's and a smiling Lupita herself is seating us in a secluded booth in the back, near the mariachi band.

Mom lets me eat most of the chips and salsa, and orders a quesadilla with grilled zucchini and mushrooms. She frowns when I order a Diet Coke instead of water, but says nothing when I get the grilled shrimp fajitas.

“You really have to watch the chemicals you put in your body,” she says, when Lupita takes our menus away. “I've read all sorts of horrible things about aspartame. It's poison.”

I shrug and reach for another chip. It's warm in here, so I take off my hoodie, and Mom looks amazed to see the pink shirt I've been hiding underneath.

She doesn't mention it, but I can tell she's pleased. “And the aluminum in the cans isn't good for you either. At least drink your poison out of a glass.”

I grin. “Of course.”

She takes her phone out of her purse and tries calling Craig again. He's supposed to be coming back tomorrow from his business trip.

She puts the phone down on the table and stabs a chip into the salsa. “That idiot must have forgotten his charger again. Why wouldn't he let me pack for him? Ooh, this is spicy!”

I grin at her as she reaches for her water glass. And I realize we're both having fun, for the first time in forever. And it feels . . . nice.

“Thanks for taking me out tonight,” I tell her. “I can't remember the last time we came here.”

Mom smiles back at me, but her smile grows fragile. “We were here after Iris's team won the district all-stars game last spring.”

Crap. I wish I hadn't made her remember that. “They beat Augusta Prep.”

Fortunately Lupita brings our food to the table, but not before Mom grows melancholy again. I know it's okay to miss Iris. And Mom knows it's okay to talk about her. But I think we're alike in that we don't like too many icky emotions.

Crying is exhausting. And I've cried so much for my sister that I feel drained. I can't let go of the grief, but I've got to make room inside me for some other emotions too. And right now, watching Mom eat spicy salsa makes me feel happy. Even if just for the moment. And being happy just for one moment is enough for now. It means maybe there will be other chances for more happiness in the future.

I don't think Mom sees it that way. Her smile is already gone, and she is back in fierce Momma Bear mode. Don't let your guard down. Don't make a mistake and let another cub fall into harm's way.

I curl my fingers around my glass of Diet Coke defensively.

But she only puts her napkin in her lap, staring at her plate without really looking at the food.

“This looks wonderful,” I say. “Craig will be jealous when he finds out we went here without him.”

She picks up her fork and knife to cut her quesadilla into tiny pieces instead of using her hands. “Oh, I'm sure he's wining and dining those contractors in Atlanta at someplace fancy. I talked with Natalie's mother today. I told her I was fine with you sleeping over with Natalie tomorrow night if you want to go. Just remember to take your medicine before bedtime and don't stay up too late.”

I start to tell her I don't feel like going, but she really wants me to start being sociable again. And so do my friends.

I give in. “I will. Thanks for letting me go.”

She gives me another almost smile, and it's worth suffering through a miserable night trying to socialize with stoned and/or drunk classmates. I can't believe I can rationalize it that way.

 

We are pulling into the garage when Craig finally returns Mom's call. I grab my backpack out of the car and go on into the house, not wanting to hear their conversation. Not because it will be intimate and NC-17 rated, but because it will be boring and business related. I have a ton of chemistry homework to do anyway.

I'm falling asleep on my open book when my phone vibrates on my desk.

“Meet me outside.”

It's not a number that's programmed into my phone, but I still recognize it. Alex. No “please,” no polite request for the pleasure of my company. I roll my eyes, but curiosity gets the better of me. I pull a black hoodie on over my tank top and pray he doesn't say anything about my cupcake pajama pants.

I can hear Mom's raised voice coming from her bedroom. “Are you out of your mind? We can't afford that right now.”

I hurry down the hallway to the front of the house. I don't want to know what Craig's bought now, but he likes his toys. A boat. A motorcycle. His convertible. Even if Mom nags and worries, his real estate business is doing well.

“Why couldn't you wait to discuss this with me when you're home?”

I open the front door as quietly as possible and slip out onto the porch.

Alex is sitting on our porch swing, with something in his hands.

I walk over toward him but don't sit down with him. I cross my arms. It's cold out here, and my ankles are freezing.

“This is for you.” Alex hands me what looks like a crumpled-up grocery bag, but something heavy is inside.

I unwrap it carefully. A Celestron Barlow lens. I look up at Alex in shock.

“It was the 3x version that you had, right?” he asks. “The one that broke?”

“Just the 2x.”

He shrugs, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets. He's wearing that army surplus jacket that makes him look like one of the surgeons from
MASH
. “Well, you just got an upgrade.”

I'm so astonished, I forget my manners. “Where did you find this? How much was it?”

“I found it in the pawn shop over by the university. And it's not polite to ask someone how much they paid for something they're giving you.”

“But, you shouldn't be giving me a gift,” I say stupidly. “I was saving up for this. Or for one like it. You shouldn't have . . . wait, what did you pawn to get this?”

Alex sighs. “Jesus.” He stands up and starts to leave, taking the porch steps two at a time.

“Wait.” I reach out and manage to grab his sleeve before he leaves. “I'm sorry, Alex. Thank you. You didn't have to do it, but thank you.”

He shrugs my hand away, but turns at the bottom of the steps, looking up at me. “It was my fault. I've been trying to order one since last week, when your other lens broke. But first I had to figure out what exactly I'd broken. And where I was going to get one. And if I was mad today in the library, it was because I'd been waiting for the guy at the pawn shop to call me back. I didn't want you thinking you'd have to replace it yourself.”

“You went to all that trouble for me?” I stare at the lens in my hand, still dazed by this strange but kind person that looks like Alex Hammond. “Are you a nice alien that stole Alex's body? And you want me to help you phone home?”

He looks like he wants to laugh. Almost. “Don't get any crazy ideas. I'm still not a nice person.”

“Of course not.” But something in my chest believes otherwise.

“This was just a debt of honor.”

“Okay.”

“I felt bad about breaking your other one and you not being able to see your stars. It was weighing on my conscience.”

“Thank you, Alex.”

“You're welcome.” He turns to go.

I have a crazy urge to hug him, or kiss him on the cheek. But it seems like a flirty thing to do. Not an Andria thing to do. I'm not a flirty person.