Dreaming of Antigone

by Robin Bridges

  I take my three lady poets and claim the computer closest to the window.

  Alex sits at the other one, yawning. He looks as tired as I feel. I can’t remember the last time I had a dream-free night. I open the first book on my pile and start typing.

  We work silently alongside each other for several minutes. I don’t want to talk to him, and yet I want him to say something.

  No, I really don’t. He’ll say something about Iris, and it will make me mad.

  Verla comes back and plugs in the printer. “All ready to go,” she says, before disappearing again into her office.

  I print a bar code for Anne Sexton’s collected works, and carefully place it on the front cover. Alex still hasn’t said anything. Maybe I should say something.

  And then my stomach growls. And growls. My cheeks burn. Next to me, Alex snorts.

  “Shut up.” I pick up the next book and start typing in the information.

  “I didn’t see you at lunch,” he says. “What was more important than a nutritious salad in a plastic box?”

  I stare at him. “How do you know what I eat for lunch? Are you stalking me?”

  He rolls his eyes. “Andria, you always eat salad for lunch. When you do eat. But you are obviously starving right now.”

  “I’m fine. We’ll be going home in an hour or so.” My stomach growls again in protest. Dammit.

  “Six o’clock is a long time from now,” he says and gets up. He disappears into Verla’s office for several minutes. I ignore my stomach and concentrate on processing the books. Maybe this won’t take as long as Verla thinks it will. Maybe I can volunteer to stay later than six and get it done in one or two days.

  Alex sits back down and plops a bag of miniature candy bars on the desk between us. “Found her stash.”

  “You can’t steal her candy!”

  He unwraps one and pops it in his mouth. “Mmm.”

  “You are going to hell, Hammond.”

  His eyes look haunted even as he grins at me. I should not have said that. The pain in his eyes makes something flicker in my chest. Something that has no business flickering.

  “Oh, probably,” he whispers. “But not for this.” And then he stuffs another chocolate kiss in his mouth.

  I glance down at the time on the bottom of my screen and groan. 4:05. Two more hours of torture.

  CHAPTER 7

  I try to ignore the chocolate and concentrate on the books, but now my head hurts from being so hungry. I begin to worry that low blood sugar might trigger a seizure. And I can’t let that happen. Not in front of Alex.

  4:07. With a defeated sigh, I snatch one of the chocolates from the bag.

  “Welcome to the Dark Side.”

  “Shut up,” I say, my mouth full of chocolate and caramel. Mmm. Sugar. I grab another and promise myself that’s all I need to make it through the afternoon.

  But I’m only lying to myself. I eat three more pieces of candy over the next two hours. Alex does not speak to me anymore, but stops working on the books every now and then to write something in his notebook. I am too busy ignoring him to ask what he’s doing. I am really not interested.

  By the time Verla returns, we have made it through the first two crates of books. I stand up and rub my neck, trying not to yawn.

  “I’m impressed,” our librarian says, peeking into the third crate. “This might not take too long after all. You’ll still get the full extra credit, though.” She goes to the piles of finished books on the table. “Ah, William Stafford. One of my favorites.” She smooths the cover gently, as if caressing a child’s face. “I can’t wait to share all of these wonderful poems with you kids.”

  “You gotta love her for her enthusiasm,” Alex says as we’re walking out the front door.

  I can’t hear any sarcasm in his voice. I think he likes Verla as much as I do. But I shrug and pull out my phone. Mom is not here yet.

  One of Alex’s moms is here, though. He opens the door to her truck and looks back at me. “Need a ride?”

  “My mother’s coming. Besides, I thought you lived on the other side of town.”

  He grins as he shakes his head. “We bought the big house on Laurel Street. The one behind yours. We’re neighbors.”

  “Oh.” I can’t think of anything else to say. I guess that explains his jogging the other night.

  His mom leans across the front of the truck to see me. “Honey? Are you sure we can’t give you a ride home?”

  “No, but thank you. There’s my mother now.” I see her silver Lexus waiting to turn into the circle. Thank God.

  Alex follows my gaze, and his eyes grow sad. I don’t think he wants to see my mother right now. He looks back at me. “See you tomorrow,” he says, and climbs into the truck.

  Why would his moms buy the house right behind ours? I know it’s on the historical register, but don’t they care that his dead girlfriend’s family lives nearby? They were respectful and did not attend Iris’s funeral, but sent a giant peace lily. Even though I’d heard from Trista that Alex’s moms thought Iris had been the bad influence on him and not the other way around.

  My parents never offered to meet them once during Alex and Iris’s four months of dating. But if Mom finds out the Hammonds have moved into the neighborhood, she’ll be torn between shunning them and baking them a casserole.

  As soon as my mother pulls up, I climb into the car, dumping my backpack on the floor in front of me.

  “That bag looks heavy,” Mom says. “Do I need to speak with the school nurse about the load you’re carrying around?”

  “It’s fine.” I hate when she riles up the school nurse with petty stuff. “What’s for supper?”

  “I’d rather talk about your grades and why you have to stay after school every day for the next week.”

  I slump down in my seat. Just a little, not enough to make her comment about my posture too. “I forgot to study.”

  “In English? I know it’s not your favorite subject, but you know you still have to pay attention to your GPA. I left a spinach and zucchini lasagna warming in the oven for you. Your father and I are having dinner with the bank’s mortgage officer.”

  “What restaurant?”

  “NONA.”

  “Bring me some shrimp pasta?” I ask. I can’t believe they’re going to my favorite restaurant without me. Even if it is for a business dinner.

  “But I made you lasagna—”

  “Please? And some crab cakes?” The stolen chocolates I had in the library won’t hold me over for very long, but I can eat some of the lasagna, put the rest in the freezer, and wait for Mom and Craig to get home with my takeout. Even if the crab cakes are cold when she brings them to me.

  She sighs as she puts her blinker on, and waits for a minivan to pass so she can turn into our dead-end street. “No crab cakes. But I’ll bring you the pasta. Only if you promise to write that essay for Duke.”

  She still wants me to go somewhere more prestigious than UGA. Somewhere relatively close, though, like Vanderbilt or Duke. And she knows with the grades I used to get, I’d have no problem getting accepted. But not with the grades I’m making now. She’s afraid of my going too far away for school. Because whatever would I do halfway across the country if I had a seizure?

  The same thing I do when I have a seizure here. Pick myself up and carry on. At least halfway across the country, I wouldn’t have to worry about hurting people I love.

  CHAPTER 8

  Ten Days

  Iris is standing at the foot of my bed, her eyes dark with fury. But she won’t say anything, and I’m frightened by her chilly stare. She wants me to apologize, to make things right, but I can’t. With a soundless cry, she reaches for me, grabs my arms.

  I sit up in bed, my heart pounding. My hair clings to my damp neck. Another effing nightmare. I rub my arm to find a long scratch, the skin around it turning an angry red. I must have done it to myself in my sleep. I keep my eyes open, to make sure the vision of my sister doesn’t return.
Not like that. I don’t like the Iris of my dreams.

  I grab my robe and sneak downstairs to make a cup of strong coffee. There is no way I’m going back to sleep now. The clock on the microwave says 4:45. It should be getting light soon. Too late now to do any stargazing. Not that I have a working telescope anyway.

  It was late when Mom and Craig got home last night, but I stayed up and wrote my essay and waited for them, holding out for my favorite food. This is what I get every year for my birthday dinner. Mom was true to her word, and I got to go to bed with a happy tummy, even if it was close to midnight.

  I stare out the window across the backyard, wondering if my mother knows that Alex and his parents moved in behind us. I wouldn’t be surprised. She is the president of the neighborhood historical society and vice president of the gardening club. And as a real estate agent, she knows the financial details of every property in Clarke County. She probably knows exactly how old the Hammond house’s water heater is and exactly how many square feet their garage is. Not terribly juicy information, but she’s been Agent of the Year at her office almost every year since I can remember. It must mean something to somebody.

  At least the Hammonds haven’t turned on the floodlights. Our backyard is one huge moonshadow, shaded by the pine trees and the holly bushes that separate our property from theirs. I wonder if Alex is still having nightmares too.

  No, I really don’t care about him or his nightmares. I have my own demons to deal with. I try to be quiet as I start the coffeemaker, but Sophie waddles into the kitchen, her happy tail thumping against the wall as she comes down the hallway. She wants to go outside and bark at squirrels. But that would piss off our neighbors this early in the morning, so I shush her with an oatmeal cookie from the cookie jar.

  Mom made the cookies last weekend, with a gluten-free recipe she found online. Quinoa Oatmeal Cranberry Cookies. They’re actually not bad. And Sophie loves them. With a mother who’s a five-time winner of the Best Shade Garden award for Pine Hills and who bakes homemade healthy treats for her children, you’d think we’d have the perfect family. But of course, you would be horribly wrong.

  My mother comes into the kitchen and catches me dumping an extra-large spoonful of sugar in my coffee. “What on earth are you doing?” she exclaims, horrified. “You shouldn’t even be drinking coffee!”

  I try not to roll my eyes. “Doctor Ly says it’s fine in moderation.”

  She takes the mug away from me with a hurt glare and pours it down the sink. “You’re too young to be starting bad habits. Let me fix you a proper breakfast. With a glass of orange juice.”

  My fingernails dig into my palms, but I can’t keep from smarting off. “No, you wouldn’t want me to succumb to bad habits, would you? It starts with coffee, but before long I’d need something harder and next thing you know, I’d be hooked on Red Bull. And then, I’d turn to . . .” I see her eyes widen, but I can’t stop my mouth from moving. Can’t stop myself from saying words that I know will hurt. “Meth.”

  Mom drops the mug. It makes a loud noise but thankfully doesn’t shatter. Sophie whines at us, visibly upset by the tension in the kitchen.

  I’m shocked at myself. And at Mom, for actually showing emotion. But as soon as I start to feel guilty, she blinks and picks up the mug. “It’s obvious you’ve already had too much sugar. It always does make you overly emotional.”

  I bite my tongue in a superhuman effort not to say anything overly emotional. Instead, I open the door to let Sophie outside. She takes off across the yard as a squirrel scampers to safety up the nearest oak tree. Go ahead, Soph. Bark all you want at those pesky squirrels. Mr. Dawes is probably awake already and desperate for neighborhood gossip anyway.

  Mom goes to the freezer and pulls out a box of whole grain waffles. “How about these? And a soft-boiled egg?”

  “They taste like thawed-out cardboard. Mom, please. I don’t need you to keep making me breakfast every morning. I’ll be fine. I can eat a cereal bar or a piece of toast.”

  She tosses the waffles back in the freezer with a huff. “I know you can fix yourself something. But breakfast is the one thing I know how to do. Because obviously I don’t know how to be a good mother.”

  I reach out for her without another thought and hold her in my arms, feeling like a terrible daughter. She’s shaking, and I know she hates confrontation just as much as me. She sniffs, and I feel sick. Why did I have to set her off?

  Of course she’s a good mother. Hasn’t she always taken care of me and protected me? Made sure I went to my doctor appointments and took my medicine? It’s not like she beat Iris or willfully neglected her. Iris and I always had the same allowance, the same curfew. As long as we were together, we were treated equally as a pair. Mom made more of a fuss over me, but she still loved Iris.

  I want to tell her not to be too hard on herself. That Iris’s death wasn’t her fault. But before I can say anything, she pulls away and retreats down the hallway back to her bedroom. I’m left alone in the kitchen, though I’m too upset now to eat anything.

  But I still need caffeine. No matter what my mother says. I leave for school early in order to take the scenic route and hike to Jittery Joe’s. I can catch my school bus a block past the coffeehouse if I time it right. I grab my too-heavy book bag and leave the house without saying anything else to Mom. Without upsetting her any more than I already have.

  It’s chilly this morning, and I start to regret my stubborn need for a stimulant-laden mocha. I wore the thickest, coziest socks that I could squeeze into my black boots, but my toes are almost numb by the time I reach Joe’s. My favorite barista, Maddy, winks at me and makes my usual: a skinny mocha with extra whipped cream and a chocolate drizzle. I warm myself with the drink, but it hits my stomach like acid. I hate fighting with Mom. I should have just let her make the waffles for me. It would have made her happy. And I’d be able to feel my feet right now.

  Natalie is waiting at the bus stop when I get there. She smiles when I share my mocha with her. Maddy has drawn a cute bunny vampire next to my name on the cup today. A Bunnicula for Easter. “Very cute,” Natalie says, admiring the artwork. “Mmm, and very yummy. Today is Day Ten, yes?”

  I automatically reach for my bracelet, forgetting it’s still broken and sitting on my dresser. My stomach knots up even more. I want my license more than anything, but I’m so scared something bad will happen before I get to take the test.

  “Where do you want to go to celebrate when you pass?” she asks as she hands the cup back to me.

  No one knows about the meteor shower. That will be a secret trip. Iris loved stargazing too when we were little, but I don’t feel like sharing my night sky with anyone else. “I don’t know,” I say. “Probably to the mall? We could eat at the Mexican place.”

  But Natalie has taken it upon herself to plan a Major Outing for this life event. She is discussing our options in first block with Trista, who favors a day trip to Atlanta.

  “Um, no.” The thought of driving in that traffic terrifies me.

  “Ooh, Six Flags!” Natalie says.

  “Please no,” I say. I sketch tiny stars inside the cover of my notebook. Swirly spiral Van Gogh stars.

  Tris frowns. “Iris would have loved Six Flags. I think we should go in her honor.”

  I am not Iris. And I don’t think I’ll ever replace her in Trista’s eyes. They were best friends since seventh grade, and Natalie and I became best friends sort of by default. With Iris gone, our circle is out of balance. I feel bad for Trista, and sometimes I think she misses Iris just as much as I do. Only she has a different way of mourning. Just when I think she’s healing, she says something like this and my own wounds reopen.

  Our chemistry teacher begins calling attendance, and Natalie gives me one last sad glance before turning around in her seat. I roll my eyes at Trista. And yet I worry that I will give in and take them to Atlanta in the end. Just to keep the peace. But I’m scared that if I start giving in to Trista’s wishes now, wha
t if I don’t stop until I’ve become her substitute Iris? I might just start wearing bright colors and playing soccer. Dating broody rocker boys.

  Never. Going. To. Happen.

  But what if it did, and what if I actually prefer my sister’s life to my own?

  CHAPTER 9

  In French, Natalie keeps throwing out suggestions. The river. The mall. The zoo. I am getting a headache.

  She sighs and pats me on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. We won’t make you drive to Six Flags. This is for you. And I don’t think Iris would have made you go somewhere just because she liked it either. Trista will get over it.”

  I’m thankful that Natalie hasn’t changed through all of this. She is still my shy best friend, sad that we’ve lost Iris, but patient with me and Tris both in our depression. Natalie is still our mother hen, as well as the best defense player our girls’ soccer team has ever had. And if she’s gotten closer to Trista over the past few months, that’s probably because I’ve pulled away from her.

  By the time I get to third block, I put my head down on my binder. I’m grateful that I don’t know anyone in this class. No one bothers me in here. I never thought I’d be grateful for the blissful droning of my algebra teacher. Just before I drift off, I notice new lines scribbled across the top of my desk:

  This is thy hour O Soul, thy free flight into the wordless . . .

  Pondering the themes thou lovest best,

  Night, sleep, death and the stars.

  A chill flutters over my skin. Walt Whitman. I saw that poem in the book Alex was cataloging yesterday. Oh God. Please don’t let him be the desk poet. I wanted it to be someone mysterious and dark and moody. Anybody but mysterious and dark and moody Alex Hammond.

  I erase the words. We both ponder the same dark themes, apparently. I can’t help but shiver. It would be so easy to be friends with Alex. In theory, at least. But it would also be wrong. He dated my sister. Was a Bad Influence on my sister. Probably copying the moody poetry as his own way of mourning. I decide not to write anything back. This needs to stop.