An Ant Goes Marching

Falling from the graceful clouds of sleep, and tangled up in more covers than a trashy karaoke band, the boy's alarm trumpeted through his room, shouting the raucous song of "Tubthumping". He grunted, lifting his heavy head to stare at his phone, dancing with the sound of passionate Brits.

 We'll be singing, when we're winning.

They were singing, all right. Unfortunately, Anthony was tone deaf.

Blinking away the sleep from his eyes, he swallowed, feeling something short of hope in his throat as he tried to make sense of the clock's numbers.

It was 6:38 A.M.

Anthony groaned, burrowing like a groundhog under the waves of his poofy white coverlet.

Chumbawumba continued to thump him from all angles. He uncovered his head of sleepy brown curls, patted around his bedside for the familiar piece of chalk, and tallied a single line on the side of the nightstand.

Tripping over his own feet, Anthony rose from the dead, stumbling over the snared blankets. He stood in front of his window, and stretched his limbs. It was going to rain today. He struggled into his uniform, and tried not to grimace.

Dressed and unprepared, Anthony bounded down the stairs. His foot caught on the last step, slamming him forward. The boy curled his knees, rolling onto his back. The blinding fog from the window decorated his face with squinty lines. Not soon after, a benevolent figure of amusement loomed over him, basking the floorboards in her merciful shadow.

She blinked at him, fighting a laugh. Her eyes were lined with happy creases, her olive skin hidden under sunspots. She rested her hands on her hips.

"Morning, Ma." Anthony grinned, groggy as always.

"Ant," His mother said, her slender fingers at her lips to hide her mirth. "Would you like some help, or should I let you starve, clumsy?"

The boy feigned injury. "The betrayal. How could you, Mama?"

"Mhm." The shadow receded. Something yellow went hurtling through the air. Anthony caught with his left hand reflexively, picking himself off the floor.

His mom whistled. "Where was that athleticism two seconds ago?"

"Shush," he stuck out his tongue, delicately bringing his fingers up to the banana's edge carefully, and taking a bite. "Thank you."

"You bet, Curious George." Spritzing the counters, she shook her head. "I would give you more than that, but I-" Burnt the toast, he supplied. The edges of the world crisped up. "burnt the toast."

He sunk his teeth into the sweet, creamy fruit, and tried not to gag, smiling instead. "Only your cooking is potent, Mom. I’ll take my chances with potassium.”

A rag thwacked against his neck. "Go brush your teeth and grab your stuff, you tease. You're going to be late for the bus."

Anthony winced at the observation. Refusing to break the dam of levity, he filled his lungs with air, and stood up. Light clung to his face as he turned toward the window’s slanted blinds. Brightness swallowed green eyes and indistinguishable, young gray hairs whole. For a moment, he leaned back against the feeling of dismemberment, glad to be nothing in a waiting room of light. Then, he stood, kissing his mother's head.

"Don't worry, I'll run."

The sound of the bell rebounded through his senses as he crashed through the school's foyer. Staring up in prayer at the terracotta brick archway overhead, Anthony slowed down his speed, and blew one of his dark, rowdy curls off of his strong nose.

He was late. Again. If he was lucky, maybe this day would end with him singing "Twist and Shout" on a parade float.

Jogging into science class, he lugged the schoolbag on his back, and narrowly avoided walking right into Olivia and Noah, who were passionately making out in the most romantic place imaginable: a school hallway. They would break up soon anyway. (Noah was not a loyal man. Handsy, too.)

The Science 401 door opened with a resounding click, creaking on its hinges.

"Nice of you to grace us with your presence, Mr King." Mr Walters raised a steady gray eyebrow, adjusting his glasses on his face.

"Apologies, sir." Anthony ducked his head, grinning sheepishly. "I have no excuse."

Ethically, this was always the best answer. Mr Walters was older than the dust lining the school's inner floorboards, and had no time for flattery or blubbering. Through trial and error, Ant knew this response would appease the crotchety sucker, causing him to say-

"At the very least, I commend you for the lack of deceit. Now, go take your seat."

Anthony nodded, trying to loosen the ever-present knot in his stomach. Butterflies were sitting idly in between his ribs after the sprint he'd just completed. He slumped down against the table, and tilted his head up to see Cicely glaring at him.

"I wasn't expecting you to show up," she said, clearly unimpressed, as always.

"How dare you think so little of me, dear lab partner? We have..." He squinted at the notes in her hands.

"Aphids."

"Aphids to learn about." He smiled brightly at her, taking in the unblinking obsidian eyes that peered back. Her hair was neat, smoothed back in a high ponytail. Her uniform was crisp.

"Are you sure you're willing when you can't even name the insect?" Contradictory mischief danced along her scowl.

"Oh, I take these greenflies and Aphidoids very seriously, thank you."

And with that, her scowl smudged, replaced by an untethered expression of surprise. Her eyes widened, swirling with space, and her lips pursed.

He knew. He'd always known. But getting on her nerves gave him caffeine.

A paper airplane went whizzing past his head. Anthony reached for it before it could fly any farther, then stretched his neck backward.

"You're going to get in trouble, doofus." He shifted in his seat to properly look at Jamie's puppy dog expression. Laughter threatened to bubble up his throat.

"This project makes no sense. Mitosis? What even is that?" The other boy groaned, running a hand through his cropped red hair. His mountains of shoulders were more round than sand dunes.

"Something you should know by now, probably."

"And Rob's not even here. What the hell am I supposed to do?" Jamie slumped down in his seat, twirling his pencil.

"James. How many ADD meds did you take today?"

His best friend hesitated for a moment before muttering, "None. Rob usually reminds me."

"And while that is very sweet, Rob has the plague. We're not going to bother your boyfriend about your hammerhead shark project when he's sicker than a Victorian." He said composedly, setting the freshly folded paper airplane on his friend's desk. "Alright?"

"Fine." Jamie relented, opening his notebook. "What's the date?"

Fire licked at rupturing wounds. Someday, this would kill him. Right now, he tapped his fingers rhythmically against the desk. "March 28th."

"Do you have to do this every day?" Cicely asked, eyebrows stitching.

If only you knew, Anthony thought. "Only when Robbie's gone. Now, back to bug anatomy."

Two minutes later, a paper airplane leapt through the air, and awkwardly struck Kyle Doharty's face. As the boy yelped, Anthony sighed, focusing his aphid packet for the thousandth time.

School ended with another redundant bell. It was Friday, the day of freedom and $1 pizza. Smushed in the dreadful Venus fly trap of bodies, all pushing towards the door like reclaimed prisoners, Anthony's phone vibrated in his hand, right on time. He checked it subliminally, not paying attention.

Shift's running late, Bug. I'll see you at 8, maybe 7:45, if Carmen's willing to have mercy on me. There's extra tikki masala in the fridge. 

Deja vu wrapped its grubby hands around Anthony's neck and refused to let go. Deja su followed, then deja vecu. He decided to treat it like an existential group hug. On autopilot, he beelined for the library.

Leryn, Connecticut was nothing if not a marvel. Follow the concrete Yellow Brick Road of the entrenched city long enough–past all of the grime, of course–and you'd find the architectural curiosity that was the Leryn Library. In Anthony's mind, the intricately carved granite columns and rows of shelves made this place the city’s magnum opus. The lack of fluorescent lighting was a bonus.

Fluorescence was for moths, not for Ants.

Wandering mindlessly through his favorite section, Anthony stroked the spines, green eyes fluttering over each inscription. He pulled out a book and opened it. A Muppets bookmark sat starchly between the paper, waiting for him. Kermit the Frog looked at him with an impartial gaze, and Anthony let out a snort, thinking of his lab partner.

Cicely was definitely prettier than Kermit, at least.

Focus.

He glanced at certain words on the page, flitting his eyes around the familiar words. Fingers pressed to turn the page, he overshot, and the pages opened to another section. Anthony groaned, scratching his thumb against the block of pages.

Then, he paused, eyes catching on a single sentence.

Hypothetically, if you were stuck in a time loop, whatever changes you made would cause different timelines to commence, and, with every subsequent loop, you would cause more irreparable damage to your own timeline, the effects becoming more volatile each time.

Anthony's legs swayed under him. He stumbled into the shelf behind him, crashing to the ground. One of the books wobbled off of its shelf, thudding onto his arm. Everything was bleary. A shrill tea kettle echoed through his skull, whistling in pain. His lungs capsized faster than the iceberg's under a polar bear's feet.

"Christ, kid, are you alright?” A voice yelped to his left. A woman in a flower dress and a thick string of pearls looked at him with wide eyes. Suddenly, Anthony was a deer. “Took a pretty nasty fall there. Did’ya drink too much coffee?”

"Mhm. Fine." Anthony let out a self-deprecating laugh.

"Hmm," The librarian hummed, "It's alright, honey. Get home safe now, you hear? Screw that head on right with a good night sleep. Try not to provoke any Red Bulls."

"Yes ma'am." Anthony saluted her, giving a genuine, toothy smile.

With that, he got up from his floor perch, put the books back on their shelves, and shuffled out to the library's grand entrance. The warm granite walls softened as he exited, saying goodbye.

One more stop, he thought.

Tiempo was waiting for him. Its neon red flickered as he sauntered over. If the library was Leryn's main attraction, this was Anthony's sanctuary. The brownstone bricks were bright under the street lights, even in the murky dark. Shifting to the side of the establishment, Anthony sidestepped the dripping pipe and its little puddle, walking fast towards the side of the building. He traipsed over to the side door, and, quieter than Stuart Little himself, Ant let himself in. Flattening himself behind a cart, he blinked against the white light of the kitchen. There, he simply watched. Someone was drizzling a careful spoon of sauce over juiced meat. Another was shaping dough. His senses blossomed with instant serotonin.

That was, until a figure blocked his path. Ninan, the tall, thick armed sous chef with a warm complexion and salty crew cut marched over to him, raising his eyebrows above inquisitive eyes.

"Hi, Nin." Anthony smiled sheepishly.

Not bothering to answer, Nin wrapped his thick fingers around Anthony's forearms, lifting him as if he were merely haut comme trois pommes. Despite his towering figure, Ninan was very gentle, plopping him outside with ease. Anthony knew the words were coming before the man pinched his nose.

"Why do you do this so often? It’s illegal."

"Immersion?"

Nin grunted, unamused. "Go home, Ant."

"Yes sir." He bowed theatrically, and walked away from the dark alleyway stage, again, and again, and-

***

The early light seeped through his windows like a growing fungus. “Tubthumping” erupted from his speaker. Anthony pursed his lips, fighting the sun through his eyelids, and revealed himself to the world, checking his phone.

It was 6:38 A.M, March 28th. The sky outside was foggy with rain, and Anthony King was going to be late for school. Again. In his head, he tallied 47 marks. Grabbing his forever unchanging piece of chalk, he scored one against the wood. It was the only one visible. He stumbled out of bed, pulled on his uniform, and went to greet the day for the millionth time. His foot missed a step.

Another banana. Anthony ran into school two minutes after the bell rang for the final time, potassium potent in his mouth as he reached Science 401. He excused himself, and sat down.

"I wasn't expecting you to show up," Cicely said dryly.

Anthony gave Jamie his building blocks, and tried not to blow a fuse. They got back to work. Anthony looked at Cicely's face for a moment, almost praying for a change in his cyclical Friday, and noticed the way her eyes were slightly shinier. He never bothered to look before. It irked him.

A paper airplane hit Kyle in the head. This was inevitable. Kyle was hopeless. There was no saving Kyle from himself. Anthony had tried.

Once again, the crushing bodies spilled out of the hallways. Ant could feel his skin tingling. He stopped near the wall of the hallway, and watched them try to escape each other. Then, he walked the other way, diverting his path for the first time in 47 Fridays.

This was his rebellion. Viva la 'who gives a crap?’ He had already deviated plenty in 47 days.

Walking under the large staircase, he drifted towards the back exit near the band room. and tried not to think too hard about what he was doing. There was a funny looking gargoyle holding a flute up ahead.

Irreparable damage.

Can it, he told his brain.

That's when he heard it.

A high weeping sound reverberated around the hall, breathy and pale against the sound of air conditioning and footsteps.

He locked eyes with the stone gargoyle, the anti-Medusa of his time. The noise pitched upward, through his eardrums. Someone was gasping for air. The gargoyle bored into him with beady, prickly eyes.

"Nope. Absolutely not, Flutey." He pointed a finger at the statue, and glared at it.

The keening sound gasped somewhere on his right. A shiver ran down his back as his eyes locked on the closed janitor's closet.

Leaning over, he wrenched the door open.

Engulfed in a space of bottles and brooms was Cicely Laurence. Her face was blotchy and red, and her dark eyes widened with anguish as he opened the door. A battered violin was clenched under her reddened fingertips.

Anthony's brain kicked into action. He kneeled on the floor of the janitor's closet, and shut the door behind him. Cicely gasped. "I-"

"Hey," he said gently. He flattened a palm and offered his hand. "Trust me?"

She shook her head slightly. 

"That's fair." Anthony shrugged. "You can let go if you want, I promise."

She looked at him, eyes still shiny, and grabbed his hand. The other was still holding her mangled violin. He padded her hand gingerly, and glanced up at her. "Answer and squeeze, alright? What's your favorite food?"

She sniffed at him, meek under the harsh lighting of the small closet. His lab partner was gone. She's still pretty when she cries, he blinked.

"Lasagna." A timid squeeze.

"You're a classy lady." He squeezed her hand twice, rubbing his fingers against her knuckles. Then, shifting his attention carefully to her violin, he softly asked, "What happened to this?" Tears bubbled in her eyes.

"It's cracked," she said, voice breaking, "What am I going to do? I can't-" She pressed her lips together. Ant could feel the way she stopped breathing.

Understanding rippled through the air.

Violin ran through her veins, just as the sweet practice of Tiempo ran through his. She was overachieving; unbothered. But he could tell she was one hell of a violin player, just from the stinging notes in her throat. Pools of the universe pulled at him through her pupils. He never wanted to see space cry again. 

A reckless lightbulb went off in his head. 

He squeezed her hand. "Escape with me, will you? We're going to find some lasagna."

***

"First things first," Anthony said lightly, stepping over the sidewalk crack. "We need names."

Cicely was quiet next to him, her face newly cleansed. "Names?

"Every good adventurer needs a moniker, Laurence." Anthony grinned at her. "Mine shall be Ant the Brave, and yours shall be Cicada the Valiant."

That got a laugh out of her. "You want us to be chivalrous bugs?"

Anthony slowed his pace as they reached the crosswalk. "Ant's already my nickname. Today, I'm giving you one."

The ghost of a smile danced across her face. "Okay. Where are we going?"

20 minutes later, Ant sank his teeth into decadent layers of lasagna. Cheese and meat filled his mouth with fireworks. He watched carefully as Cicely’s shoulders finally relaxed in the midst of Tiempo’s atmosphere. She was glowing in the light. "Can we do this again?"

Anthony thought of all the invisible tally marks on his dresser. He looked at her, and smiled softly. "Come to my house tomorrow. Another adventure awaits.”

“Cicada and Ant,” she laughed. He echoed the sound, ignoring the way his heart screamed. He wanted to kiss her silly, just so she wouldn't forget.

As she left, he made a call to the music store instead.

***

When Ant awoke the next morning, dread filled him. But no tubs were thumping. His phone buzzed, and bile flew to his throat as he read the date.

It was Saturday, March 29th. 8:49 A.M. There was a mended violin by his bed. The doorbell was ringing. He ran down the stairs, reincarnated between space and time, and yanked the door open. There, a Cicada was waiting. There, he embraced her like there was no tomorrow.

We’ll be singing, when we’re winning.