Antsy Floats

by Neal Shusterman

  “So what happens now?” my father asked the Jaw.

  “Please step inside,” he threatened. “The president will brief you personally.”

  “What?” said my mother. “What did you just say?”

  I savored the look of absolute shock on my parents faces until the Jaw swung open the van door and out came a short man with reddish hair, graying at the sides.

  “Hello, I’m Kyle Ericsson, president of Caribbean Viking cruise line.”

  My dad let out a breath like maybe he’d been holding it for a whole minute, and my mother turned to the Jaw, suddenly more intimidating than him.

  “What’s wrong with you?” she said. “My husband has a heart condition—you don’t go telling someone ‘the president will brief you personally’ and give them Kyle Ericsson.”

  “See, that’s what I said,” I told them, but nobody cared.

  Ericsson sighed, like he dealt with this on a regular basis. “Be that as it may, I came here to personally resolve this situation.” Then he turned to me. “Anthony, I presume.”

  “You presume right.”

  He snapped his fingers, and the Jaw obediently got out a key and removed the handcuffs. “You won’t be needing those now.”

  I had been in handcuffs for maybe ten minutes, but it felt like hours.

  “So, then I’m free?”

  “Yes and no,” Ericsson said. “Mostly no.”

  Then he hustled us into the van and we sped off, because, like Captain Pajramovic predicted, an island news team was hurrying down the pier, microphones and cameras in hand.

  Some skillful maneuvering got us out of the marina without any unwanted photo ops.

  “Well, at least you can’t say your experience on the Plethora of the Deep wasn’t unique!” Ericsson said. He smiled with teeth so perfect, I figured his dental work probably cost more than our house. I guess winning teeth are important for a CEO.

  “Is anyone going to tell us what happens now?” my father asked, no patience for Ericsson’s polite corporate ways.

  “Yeah—and where are they taking the Caribbean Nine?” I asked—noticing that we were no longer following the other van but had turned in a different direction.

  “Your concern for the stowaways is admirable, but unnecessary,” Ericsson said. “They are being taken to the embassy for processing. They’ll each be given a visa, so their presence here will be official.”

  “You’re giving them credit cards?” said Christina. “Can I get a Visa, too?” I’m glad she said it and not me. It was time someone else around here felt stupid.

  “He means a permit to stay here,” my mother told her. “A green card. Although I don’t know if they’re actually green.”

  “Oh. I knew that,” Christina said, even though we all knew she didn’t.

  “That still doesn’t answer my question,” my father said. “Are we being held here, or can we go home?”

  “The truth is, you can do whatever you please,” Ericsson said. “The cruise line itself isn’t pressing charges against Anthony, and until the US State Department officially puts out a warrant for his arrest, you’re free to fly home. In fact, I can tell the driver to take you straight to the airport if that’s what you really want . . .”

  There was a huge “but” hanging in the air, and I didn’t like the way it smelled, so I asked the obvious question.

  “Why wouldn’t we want to?”

  “Because,” said Ericsson, “if you go home now, you’ll find news teams camped at your front door and the government will be forced to take action against you, Anthony. More than likely you’ll go to a juvenile detention center for a very long time . . . and maybe prison after that.” He paused, waiting for that to sink in, but he didn’t have to wait. It sank like a Mafia informant in the East River. “. . . But . . . if you agree to wait here in St. Thomas until this whole thing blows over, the media will forget you, and our lawyers will be able to negotiate you a milder punishment.”

  “And how long might that take?” my father asked.

  Ericsson pooched out his lower lip and shrugged. “A few weeks, a month, the rest of the summer perhaps. Certainly by September.”

  My father shook his head in disbelief. “No! I won’t do it!”

  “Mr. Bonano, one of the island’s finest resorts, in addition to offering jobs for the Caribbean Nine, has graciously offered a place for your family to stay while you’re here, so your comfort won’t be in question.”

  “I don’t need comfort,” my father yelled. “I have a business to run!”

  My brain was still sleeping with the fishes, stuck on the concept of endless juvie, but it was Christina who helped us all see the bigger picture, making up for that “visa” gaff, which I will tease her about for the rest of her life.

  “Hold it,” Christina said. “Mr. Ericsson, are you telling us that we are being handed an all-expenses-paid vacation . . . at a five-star Caribbean resort . . . for as long as we want to stay?”

  “Well, yes,” he said, “but our lawyers prefer to call it ‘protective exile.’”

  “Okay,” said Christina, “whoever wants to be in protective exile in a tropical paradise for free, raise your hand.”

  I swear, the cruise line should fire their spin doctors and hire my sister. I raised my hand even faster than she did. My mother’s hand went up next, and we all looked to my father, who still held out.

  “Joe,” my mom said, gently clasping his hand. “After that cruise, don’t you think we need a vacation?”

  He reluctantly nodded and put his hand up, too.

  “Splendid,” said Ericsson. “I think you’re going to like this place; I’ve stayed there myself—it’s something special.”

  • • •

  Exile’s a funny thing. Ask any overthrown dictator. No matter how much people want to get rid of you, you’re better off to them alive than dead, because if you’re alive, all you get to be is a memory, as in, “hey, what ever happened to that ex-dictator guy?” But once you’re dead, there’s a good chance people might see you as a martyr, having died for your cause. Then they’d start healing people in your name, making graven idols to you that get on the news when they cry blood, like this lawn gnome on our block. The guy who owned it claimed that it was a manifestation of the Holy Spirit, but no one believed it, because, come on—it was a lawn gnome. Everyone knows lawn gnome blood is blue.

  My own exile began down an overgrown dirt road that didn’t look like it was leading anywhere good. When we stopped in a clearing in the middle of nowhere, I had a dark little flashback to Hello-Hello, but there weren’t any crumbling buildings around us. There was nothing but rain forest.

  “Here we are,” said Ericsson, and opened the door of the van.

  When we stepped out, we saw nothing but a sign that said LOBBY, pointing toward a bunch of trees.

  “Uh-oh,” said Christina. “Now comes the firing squad.”

  Then from somewhere right in front of me I heard a voice that was familiar and yet wasn’t. Like it had changed a little from the last time I had heard it.

  “Hi, everyone,” the voice said, “Welcome to Peekaboo Cove Resort!”

  My heart missed a major beat. Not just because of the voice, but because I couldn’t see who was talking, even though I knew he must have been right in front of my face. That could only mean one thing!

  “Schwa?”

  I blinked, and there he was, my old friend Calvin Schwa, wearing a leaf-print shirt that blended in perfectly with the background and with eyes the same exact color as the sky.

  “Hi, Antsy,” said the Schwa. “It’s good to see you.”

  CHAPTER 29

  MY LIFE AS AN INTERCONTINENTAL BALLISTIC MISSILE

  ALVIN SCHWA, IN CASE YOU DIDN’T KNOW, IS famous for being supernaturally unnoticeable, functionally invisible, observationally chal
lenged. He’s the kid whose picture never shows up in yearbooks, the kid who never gets called on to answer questions, and you know when you buy a picture frame at the store? I swear, his is the face that comes with the frame.

  Most people ignored him, but he didn’t go unnoticed in my life—and if it wasn’t for him, I’d never have even been on that cruise and my dad wouldn’t even have a restaurant. That’s because I would never have met Crawley or Lexie had it not been for the one, the only Calvin Schwa. Funny how it’s the small, seemingly insignificant things that end up changing your life. And funny how it all comes back around.

  A couple of years ago, the Schwa went off in search of his long-lost mother, and he found her hopping around the Caribbean, lost, you could say, in the Bermuda Triangle.

  He introduced us to her in the lobby. She was a wholly indescribable woman. I mean that literally. You couldn’t describe her. She was so ordinary, the best you could do was to say that she looked like someone’s mother.

  “I’ve heard so much about you,” she said as she shook my hand. She said hello to my parents, but they were so busy looking around, they didn’t notice she was there. Apparently the Schwa’s suspicions had been correct: His mom suffered from “the Schwa Effect,” too, although to be honest, neither of them was suffering.

  While my parents checked in, the Schwa gave me a tour of the grounds.

  “My mom won this place in a poker game,” he told me as he led me down a path that seemed to go nowhere until it opened up on a series of beautiful island villas. “But the guy who lost the game asked if she’d settle for marrying him instead. It was much more romantic than it sounds.”

  “So what about your father?” I had to ask.

  The Schwa shrugged. “He spent Christmas with us. Then once he got home, he wrote me a letter saying ‘Sorry I missed seeing you.’”

  “Typical.”

  “Yeah, some things never change. Anyway, since my mom and I got here, business couldn’t be better.”

  As it turns out, the Schwa effect was stronger when he and his mother were both together, and they found a way to turn it to their advantage, creating a little niche business for themselves.

  “We make famous people disappear,” the Schwa told me. “Just for a week or two—however long they need a break from the world. No tabloid headlines, no photographers, no fans. They get to be normal people while they’re here, and thanks to my mom’s and my ‘special touch,’ the outside world doesn’t know this place exists. Believe me, some people will pay a lot of money to not be noticed!”

  As he led me around, it amazed me how every single building of the resort was hidden by the forest around it until you were right next to it. If you weren’t looking, you wouldn’t even know the resort was here, and it occurred to me that all of us, no matter how bizarre our personal set of skills is, manage to find a place in the world.

  “So what famous people are here now?” I asked.

  “I’m not allowed to say,” he told me, “but I’m sure you’ll meet some of them.”

  “You should tell me who they are,” I insisted. “’Cause what if I meet them and I don’t recognize their famousness and they get all insulted?”

  “No need to worry about that,” he said with a smile. “I guarantee you’ll recognize every single one of them.”

  Just then a guy with long hair who looked remarkably familiar, even without his guitar, came down the path.

  “Pardon me, mate,” he said very Britishly, “d’you ’ave a clue where the pool’s at?”

  “Keep going straight, then turn right at the next path,” said the Schwa.

  He backed up, a little freaked. “Whoa! Where’d you come from?”

  “Same place as him,” said the Schwa, pointing at me. “But I’ve been here longer.”

  He gave the Schwa another funny look, then went off in search of the pool.

  I was speechless. “W . . . was that who I think it was?”

  “Yep,” the Schwa said. “Like I told you, you’ll recognize everyone.”

  After the grand tour, we rested in a couple of hammocks down by the beach, drinking virgin mango-ritas out of coconuts and watching catamarans sailing by in the distance.

  “I gotta admit it, Schwa—you know how to disappear in style.”

  “It’s an art form.”

  I took another sip of my drink and thought for a moment of all I’d been through. I wondered if Tilde knew that this was the plan, or if she thought I was still under arrest, or if she had already moved on and was looking for her next “Enzo.” I could only hope she’d miss me as much as I’d miss her.

  “So are you really going to give jobs to the Caribbean Nine?” I asked.

  “At first they’ll be guests like you,” the Schwa said. “But to stay in St. Thomas, the adults have to have jobs and the kids have to go to school. It’s part of the deal. They’ll probably go to the same school I do. It’s small, but it gets the job done.” He slurped the bottom of his drink. “Anyway, we pay a fair wage, and our guests are very good tippers. So they oughta do fine.”

  Farther down the beach, my parents were walking hand in hand, my dad finally relaxing. Behind us, in an open-air café, my sister was having an in-depth conversation with a kid actor who wasn’t as acne free as the poster of him in her bedroom back home. I thought of my dad’s backyard Zen garden and realized that this place wasn’t all that different. Whatever was going on in the outside world didn’t matter. Here, all was calm, all was balanced, all was well.

  “So how about you, Antsy—do you know what happens when you finally go back?”

  I nodded. Ericsson had told me a bit more of the plan before he left. “Well, the cruise line’s lawyers feel pretty sure they can get the charges against me dropped if I agree to go to military school.”

  The Schwa stopped rocking. “Military school? You?”

  “I know, crazy, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, like putting a monkey on a moon mission!”

  I laughed at that. If anyone else had said that, I would have been mad, but I couldn’t get mad at the Schwa. “So are you insulting me or the monkey?”

  Military school was not something I was looking forward to. I mean, back home, I tended to make fun of the ROTC kids, and now I’d be one of them. I tried to imagine myself in a uniform and couldn’t.

  “My parents say the discipline will build character—which I need like a hole in the head—but hey, there are worse things.”

  “Maybe you’ll like it,” suggested the Schwa.

  “It’ll be different,” I said. “I can handle different.” And that much I knew was true, because I was handling it right now. I mean, if you told me a month ago that I’d go on a cruise, create an international incident, and wind up drinking mango-ritas out of coconuts with the Schwa, I would have had you committed. But fate is a freak when it comes to messing with your future in ways you don’t see coming.

  Teachers, and parents, and those self-help books my mother always reads—they’re always saying “visualize your future.” I never had luck with that. I never could see much at all. When I thought of the future, all I saw was my street, my neighborhood, Brooklyn, and more Brooklyn after that, because there ain’t no end to the place. You can think you’ve seen it all, and suddenly you’ll take an unexpected turn into some twilight-zone neighborhood you never knew existed, where all the street numbers got square roots.

  Somehow looking at my future is different now, though. Sure, I still can’t see much—but now the stuff I can’t see goes way beyond where it used to. Now I’m like last year’s fireworks fiasco, taking on gravity’s rainbow—and I’m not coming down on the poor slobs on East 53rd Street. For all I know I’m going intercontinental, like some kind of missile, ready to take out a poor unsuspecting city. Or at least mess with it a little.

  But there’d be plenty of time for that. Right now
I had nothing pressing, unless you counted the hammock strings digging a pattern in my back you could read like a road map.

  “You know what, Schwa?” I said, realizing this for maybe the first time. “It doesn’t suck to be me.”

  “Yeah,” he said, “I know the feeling.”

  And there we stayed until sunset—me, for once, happy to just sit still.

  • • •

  Oh, and by the way, the president—the REAL president—actually did say something about me, in his next press conference, although he never actually mentioned my name.

  “We need to put this event in perspective,” he said. “We mustn’t exaggerate the importance of one well-meaning but misguided youth.”

  Leave it to the president to sum up my whole life in a single sound bite. I’d put it on a T-shirt, but I’m sure it would get lost with my luggage.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  This ship could not have sailed without the help and support of quite a few skilled ship builders. First and foremost, I’d like to thank my editor, Julie Strauss-Gabel, as well as Don Weisberg, Lauri Hornik, Eileen Kreit, Scottie Bowditch, and everyone at Penguin for believing in this book, and letting Antsy take this voyage. Thanks to my agent, Andrea Brown, for not just being a great agent, but a great friend. Thanks to my kids, Brendan, Jarrod, Joelle, and Erin for their love and input, and for our research cruises on several of the world’s largest cruise ships. A dirty job, but someone’s gotta do it. Many thanks to my tireless assistant, Marcia Blanco, without whom nothing would ever get done. A shout-out to Wendy Doyle for her work on my newsletter, and for transcribing my various mad ramblings. Thanks to Chris Goethals for being so supportive, and giving me notes on my early draft. Endless gratitude to my critique group, the Fictionaires, for their wisdom and friendship. And finally a heartfelt thanks to all the fans who screamed for another Antsy story. I think this is the best one yet—I hope you find it to be an epic sail!