Dreaming of Antigone Read online

  I shrug. If I can’t fix it myself, then I won’t be able to see the meteor shower in two weeks. “They probably won’t even notice,” I say. But that’s the main reason I’m anxious to get my license. I want to be able to drive out to the fields south of the university and watch the Lyrids.

  “I’m sorry.”

  I wish he’d stop saying that. “Look, I’d better get inside. My mom will be waking up soon. I’ll see you around.”

  He rubs his hand over his head. I wonder if it’s because he’s still not used to the short cut. It makes him look so much different. He no longer looks like a triplet of Thing One and Thing Two. “Take care of that hand,” he says.

  He takes off from the porch, finishing his run. I watch him disappear into the darkness and suddenly wonder what he was doing in my neighborhood in the middle of the night. He and his moms live south of the university, according to Iris. And he never did tell me what his nightmares were about.

  CHAPTER 5

  Mom left whole wheat French toast and hard-boiled eggs for me this morning. I give both to Sophie. She hasn’t been eating her regular food much lately, but I think it’s just because she’s getting old. I hope my mom’s breakfasts are nutritious enough for an elderly Siberian husky. She seems to like them, and I love seeing her tail wag when I bring her breakfast on Mom’s good china.

  Craig catches me coming out of my bedroom with the plate, but he only smiles and shakes his head. “So that’s how you keep your girlish figure,” he says.

  I roll my eyes and take the dish back to the kitchen.

  My stepfather follows me. “What did you do to your hand?” He picks it up and turns it over, palm up, so he can look at the bandage. Before Iris died, he was never very touchy or affectionate with me. Now it seems every day he finds a reason to hug me.

  “Splinter,” I say, pulling my hand back. “Have to run or I’ll be late for the bus.”

  “I can take you. I don’t mind.”

  It’s been a pain in the butt taking the bus while Iris’s car waits in the garage for me. So the rare mornings he or Mom are here to drive me, I leap at the chance.

  Riding to school in Craig’s convertible Mercedes is painfully awkward. The vehicle is quiet, but Craig taps his hands on the steering wheel and hums along to nineties boy band music from his Pandora station. Savage Garden, I think. Or maybe Backstreet Boys.

  As he pulls into the drop-off circle, he reaches over and squeezes my wrist gently. “Take care, Andria.”

  I don’t answer, but grab my bag and hop out of the vehicle, more creeped out by his music choices than his touchy-feely-ness. I know he and Mom both think I’m frail and now that I’ve lost my twin I just might be fragile enough to break. As if we were attached like Siamese twins and dependent upon one another. In some ways, we were. But in other ways, we were very separate entities. Sometimes, I feel like I never really knew my sister at all. And now that she’s gone, I won’t ever get the chance.

  There, in a black-blue vault she sails along,

  Followed by multitudes of stars . . . small

  And sharp, and bright, along the dark abyss

  There’s more poetry on the desk today. I touch the words with my fingers, as if they were braille. Mrs. Davis rambles on at the front of the class about additive inverses. I copy the poem into my notebook, wishing I had something just as beautiful to leave on the desk for my verse-loving friend.

  I don’t have time at lunch to look up the poem, though. I have a unit exam in chemistry tomorrow, so I sit in the courtyard with Trista, cramming. Only she’s more interested in glaring at Thing One, otherwise known as Hank. Her man is flirting on the other side of the courtyard with two sophomores who are wearing Calcifer T-shirts. He has an arm draped around each giggling girl. Alex is sitting at the picnic table beside them, his head down as if he’s taking a nap.

  “Hey.” I tap Tris’s book with my pen. “Back to Boyle’s law.”

  She flips her book closed. “I’m too pissed to study. That asshole texted me last night and said he missed me.”

  “Maybe he was drunk?” I ask. “Or high? You don’t need a loser like him. Find someone who deserves you. Someone who’s sober.”

  She looks at me like I’ve sprouted two heads. “God, Andria. Not everyone who parties is a drug addict.”

  Natalie gasps as she comes up and sits down beside us. “Tris!” she says, horrified.

  Trista stares at her shoes. “Whatever, I know that sounds bitchy, but seriously. We don’t have to stop having fun because Iris couldn’t handle it.”

  I slam my chemistry book shut. I want to ask her if she thought Iris smoked heroin for fun, but Tris won’t understand. She thinks popping pills and drinking on the weekends is innocent fun. She likes to party, but she’s never done hard stuff. Nor has Natalie. At least I don’t think they have.

  Both of them are on the girls’ soccer team. They should be more interested in keeping their bodies healthy, but I don’t bother to point that out.

  I still don’t want to talk about Iris with anyone. And I really don’t think they want to talk about her either. For months, the school looked like a funeral home, with flower wreaths and flower crosses and teddy bears and cards heaped in a growing pile in the front hall. We had counselors come and talk to us. Iris’s teachers and coaches mourned along with us. I had to share my grief with the entire school. And I resented that. And now everyone else besides our dysfunctional group has moved on, and I am left alone to mourn. But I wish I could move on too.

  I’m beginning to think my sister’s perfect life was not so perfect, for her to abandon herself to drugs like that. Why didn’t I see that sooner? I should have noticed something, should have tried to help her. I was so jealous of her social life and her love life. I’m a terrible twin for not knowing something was wrong until it was too late. And I don’t want my friends to realize what a horrible person I am. I’d rather they just think I’m still mad with grief.

  Before I can grab my stuff and storm off dramatically, Tris beats me to it, saving me the embarrassment. She takes her books and stomps off. She passes dangerously close to Thing One and his groupies, and it looks like she says something to him, because he drops his arms from around the girls. Alex sleeps through the drama, until Trista sits down on the table with him and rubs up against him. Thing One looks murderous, then he takes both sophomores and leaves the courtyard, his hand squeezing one’s ass.

  Natalie is watching the show with me. “Maybe Hank isn’t the one for Tris. But they’ve got a lot of history, and I don’t think either of them really wants to let the other one go yet. She’s wasting her time with Pluto, though. He is definitely still mourning Iris.”

  “What makes you say that?” I ask. He is trying to ignore Tris, but she now has her hands all over him. Playing with his hair, touching his shirt. I want to smile when he tries to scoot away from her and she finally slinks off.

  “I’ve seen him wear her ring,” Natalie says.

  “The opal one?” We had matching birthstone rings our parents gave us on our fifteenth birthday. Mine is still in my jewelry box. They say it’s bad luck to wear opal if you weren’t born in October, so I refuse to wear mine. Iris loved hers and didn’t care about superstitions.

  Natalie shakes her head. “Maybe? But I don’t think it’s opal. It looks like a galaxy or something.”

  I stare at her. That is my ring. The one with a stone that looks like the Butterfly Nebula. Iris gave it to me the Christmas we were freshmen, then borrowed it all the time. I haven’t seen it in over a year.

  “Besides,” Natalie says, still watching Alex. “He’s been so different since Iris died. Much more quiet than he used to be. It’s like he’s gone . . . dark.”

  “Broody dark or homicidal dark?” I ask.

  She shrugs.

  The bell rings, and I have to go to class. It would be rude of me to demand my ring back from Alex if it reminds him of Iris, but it’s mine. Sooner or later, I’ll want it back.

/>   Natalie follows me in to English, but Tris skips. Maybe she’s getting back together with Thing One and they are making out in the parking lot. I can’t help but feel a tiny bit jealous, because the teacher makes us clear our desks as soon as the bell rings and hands out an exam on the previous unit, Greek comedies and Aristophanes.

  Answer four of the following five essay questions. Each question is worth twenty-five points. I just spent the last thirty minutes studying the wrong thing.

  CHAPTER 6

  Eleven Days

  A 47. I flunked yesterday’s test on Greek comedies utterly. Tragically. I wonder if Verla is some sort of psychic. Not only did I miss lunch today because I had to help Natalie study for French, but my bracelet broke and I thought I had lost it. Luckily, Natalie found it in the grass in the quad. I don’t know if the clasp can be replaced or not.

  After going over the exam, our teacher wants to continue discussing themes in Antigone. And Mr. Herrington wants to talk about Antigone’s relationship with her sister, Ismene. I slump a little in my seat, and avoid Natalie’s gaze. Antigone was the outspoken one, and Ismene was the one who wanted to follow the rules. No, she wanted to follow their uncle’s rules. Antigone wanted to follow the rules of their gods. Ismene tried to play it safe, but then also tried to stand up for her sister when Antigone was arrested. “Kill me too,” Ismene begged, when Antigone got the death penalty, which only pissed Antigone off. In a sense, Iris and I are like Ismene and Antigone.

  I am the freak with the strange disease who doesn’t want to dress like anyone else. My sister wasn’t quiet, but she definitely tried to fit in with everyone. But Ismene didn’t die. Antigone is the one who dies, by committing suicide before Creon can kill her. She chooses to face death on her own terms.

  What a way to get behind your principles. Ismene might be scorned by her sister for being too weak to stand up for what she believes in, but she knows her family has suffered enough and pleads with Antigone to make peace with their uncle. But as a result of Antigone being stubborn and standing up for what she believes in, she dies, her boyfriend dies, and his mom dies. A high price to pay for one’s beliefs. Or is that being too proud to back down?

  Yes, Creon suffers too. His son and wife both commit suicide. He goes mad with grief.

  There is no happy ending in this story. Ismene is left completely alone, knowing her sister died without forgiving her. She’s lost the last members of her family by the end of the play.

  Our teacher points out the difference between the various suicides in Antigone. The main character kills herself because she’s accepted her fate, and is willing to die for her beliefs. Haemon and his mother kill themselves because they are unhappy with their fates, unwilling to live without their loved ones.

  Natalie is scribbling something furiously on a sheet of notebook paper. Trista is staring out the window, looking bored. The rest of the girls from the soccer team are tearing up dramatically, wiping mascara from their cheeks.

  I roll my eyes so that they don’t water. I can’t cry in here. I did not cry when Iris died and I won’t cry now with the rest of these drama queens. Iris’s death was officially deemed an accident. Not a suicide. But don’t you have to have some sort of death wish to smoke heroin?

  Natalie’s note lands on my desk. “Do you need to go to the nurse? I can take you if, you know, you might suddenly feel weak or dizzy. We could just go to the bathroom instead. Or we could go to Disney World. I’m here for you. Mr. Herrington is an obtuse dick.”

  I have to laugh. Which makes everyone look at me. The ones who think I’m about to commit suicide because I’m so depressed about my twin sister’s death. The ones who have been whispering all along that her overdose was intentional. The ones who call me Abby instead of Andria because they think I look like the goth chick on NCIS. (And I really don’t—Iris used to call my style more grunge than goth.)

  I don’t even own any black leather besides my boots. My hair is naturally black and curly, thanks to our Greek grandparents, even though Iris was only half as lucky. She always envied my curls while I lusted after her sleek raven locks.

  I laugh because Natalie is going into battle mode. Planning our retreat before the opposition attacks. Scorch and burn. I raise my hand. Natalie’s eyes widen as she prepares to get up with me. But I’m standing my ground. “Mr. Herrington? Do you think Ismene’s end is more tragic or Antigone’s? Because if Antigone had listened to Ismene, they’d both still be alive. Haemon and his mom would still be alive, too.”

  “It depends on the reader,” our teacher says. “Do you feel your beliefs are worth dying for?”

  I have no beliefs. But I don’t say that. Perhaps I am more like Ismene, unwilling to speak out for fear of upsetting the status quo.

  Mr. Herrington continues, apparently not expecting an answer from me. “You might agree with Ismene, and think the ends justifies the means. That moral integrity is not worth the sacrifice of even one human life. But the ancient Greeks thought Antigone was right. That by standing up for her beliefs, she died an honorable death.”

  All this time, I’ve been pretty sure my sister didn’t choose to die. Not that we’ll ever know for sure, but what fate would she have been trying to avoid? She had it pretty good until the drugs got out of control. She had an adoring group of friends, a hot boyfriend, a driver’s license, and a wicked car our parents bought for her. Decent grades and a few trophies for playing soccer on a championship team. She was healthy. Normal.

  But now I wonder. What did she believe? Did she believe her life was hopeless? Did she think drugs were a way to escape something she didn’t think she could handle anymore? If so, Iris, why couldn’t I have changed your mind?

  There is no happy ending in this story, I write across the top of my Antigone notes.

  Exhausted and hungry and depressed, I drag my butt into the library after class to beg and plead for Verla’s extra-credit assignment. I don’t think it will be any problem sorting through old books of poetry. If I don’t bring my English grade up to a C or better, my parents won’t let me take the driving test, seizure-free or not.

  Someone else is talking to Verla in the tiny office behind her desk. I hop up onto the desk to wait, looking at one of the books she has lying there.

  Robert Frost. I’m flipping through the pages, reading about fire and ice and snow and stars, when they come out of the office.

  “Oh, Andria,” Verla is saying. “I’m glad you’re here too. This will be your extra-credit partner.”

  I don’t have to look up to know who it is. My luck sucks that way.

  Alex Hammond drops his book bag on the floor and steals the book from my hands.

  Of course it’s him.

  I glare at Verla. “I haven’t agreed to anything yet. Do I have to work with him?”

  She looks from one of us to the other, startled. I see in her eyes the moment she realizes what she’s done. She’s heard the whispers and the rumors. This is the boy who killed my sister. She takes the stack of books in her arms and cradles them close to her chest. “I don’t see how we can do this any other way. We’ve got to get these books cataloged by the end of next week. I’ll need both of you here after school every day from three thirty to six.”

  Alex glances up from the book at me, but says nothing. He’s daring me to chicken out. I glare right back. “How much extra credit are we talking about?”

  Verla leans against the counter. “Your teacher has promised two 100s that count as test grades.”

  That would definitely help erase the 47. “No problem, Miss V,” I say.

  She breathes a visible sigh of relief. “Great. If you can make arrangements to start this afternoon, that would be wonderful.”

  “I’d have to call,” I say. I’ll need a ride home, but I’ll be damned if I mention that in front of Alex.

  “I’m good.” Alex holds on to the Robert Frost book and follows Verla to a computer station and a stack of plastic containers filled with the donated poetry co
llection.

  I send a message to my mom and tuck my phone back in my purse. I’m already dreading the ride home. I’ll have to listen to her lecture me about my English grades.

  By the time I catch up with Alex and Verla, she’s showing him the catalog system on the computer. “Each book will need to be entered into the system,” she’s saying. “Title, author, publisher, pub date, ISBN number.” She’s pointing to a long line of numbers in one of the front pages of the book in her hand.

  Alex moves over so I can see better.

  “Once you have the book in the database, you can print out the barcode sticker and attach it to the corner of the front cover.” She glances up at the tiny label printer and frowns. “I seem to be missing a cable. Well, you can still type in the information while I hunt one down. Once you’re done with these crates, there are three more stacks in the back.”

  “Holy crap,” I say. “How many books are there?”

  She grins. This must seem like Christmas to her. “Five hundred volumes. Isn’t this wonderful? When you’re done with each one, stack it in one of the piles on this table over here. I need them alphabetized by poet names. One stack for each letter.”

  I nod, pulling three books out of the first crate. Anne Sexton, Sylvia Plath, Marianne Moore. “Who donated all of these books anyway?”

  “The relatives of an elderly gentleman who recently passed. He’d been a professor at Vanderbilt.”

  Alex picks up a few more books, some that are leather bound. “And he wanted to leave his collection to a bunch of high school kids?” He shakes his head in wonder.

  Verla shrugs and hurries off to find a printer cable.

  Alex is right. Some of these volumes look old, even if they have been well cared for. I don’t know how long they’ll stay in good condition once they start getting checked out. If anyone checks them out. Not too many kids in my school can appreciate Marianne Moore.