The Anti-Heroes

Chapter Seventeen EMILY

Chapter Seventeen

E MILY

Zeus has sent us into the community for a challenge. Today we’re on familiar ground. We’ve set up shop overlooking Deering Meadow, one of my favorite spots. Deering is a wide expanse of green in the middle of campus. Tons of students are hanging out, sunning themselves, studying, playing Frisbee; it’s a real gathering spot, a place to see and be seen. (Naturally, Zeus has parked himself in a lawn chair in the middle of it all, observing from a distance.) Anyone here for summer school or a university tour is likely to pass by us and our three sets of card tables.

Given our task, I hope I don’t run into anyone I know. My idea was to wear a wig so I wouldn’t be recognized. Fortunately, Miles had the foresight to brief our department chair that he and I were participating in a sociological experiment that he’d likely publish, so I’m not concerned about professional blowback. I guess that’s better than a disguise.

Liv and I are paired, and our banner features a fluffy lop-eared rabbit in neon eyeshadow and cat-eye liner. B-Money and Vishnu’s table has a fully contoured pig who looks oddly attractive. Neither Miles nor Michael can figure out how to hang their banner with its pink-ombré poodle, so it’s still folded on their table. Zeus must have known I wasn’t behind Miles’s joining, so he put Michael and Miles on a team, and they’re getting along like a house on fire. They’re so busy talking at each other, I can’t imagine they’re hearing what the other has to say.

This will be unpleasant, but the best way past is through, so I dive in. A clueless first-year student with a pronounced Adam’s apple passes by and I stop him. “Sign a petition to—ugh—support cosmetic testing on animals?” I can ask people to sign, but I don’t have to like it.

Instead of arguing with me, or asking me to spew some bullshit about why this is a good (awful) idea, to my dismay, I see the kid grasp the clipboard with his orange-stained fingertips. For all the nice things I think about a lot of Gen Z, there are always outliers. Cheetos fingers here is one of them. People like him ruin it for everyone.

“Can I borrow your pen?” he asks.

“Wait, you’re really signing this?” I am equal parts incredulous and furious. “You’re just going to sign this ridiculous fake petition, just like that? No questions? Where’s your curiosity? Where’s your engagement? Where’s your outrage? When I was your age, I was busy organizing a campus march against using plastic straws in the dining hall—what are you doing with your one wild and precious life? How are you making the world better? Do you just indiscriminately do what people say?”

The kid tries to talk, but it takes a second for him to find his voice, and then it comes out hoarse and afraid. “Um ... yes?”

“You know, people on the street used to call me a worthless hippie for prodding them to give a fuck about the environment, but you’re willing to harm animals just because you’re eighteen and don’t know shit from shit?”

Now he looks like he wants to throw up. “Yes? No? I don’t know?”

I rip the clipboard from his hands. “Get to class!”

In the distance, I see Zeus peering at me over his sunglasses. Argh.

Liv gently takes the clipboard from me. “That was a terrific effort, Emily, but maybe we should change our approach? Remember how well Cans for Cans worked? Perhaps get their signature without making them cry? I know you have big feelings, but remember, others do, too,” she suggests, using her “teaching unruly kindergarteners/gentle parenting” voice that she normally only applies at work or with her family. “If Zeus wants us to do this, he has a reason, and we should engage wholeheartedly.”

“Okay, fine. Maybe you’re right. But how about you try.” I scan the area, looking for a potential sucker. “Look over there, I see a fortysomething man coming our way. He has finance-professor vibes. I bet he’ll sign because animal testing would benefit some awful company in his portfolio. Give it a whirl.”

I don’t know if I’m supposed to be rooting for us to fail or succeed, but if Liv wants us to do it square, I’ll give it an honest effort. She approaches him like a flight attendant welcoming a VIP to first class; the only thing missing is a hot towel. “Hi there. My name is Liv. It’s so great to meet you! Quick favor, if I’m not asking too much—would you please consider supporting our cause, cosmetic testing on animals?” Liv speaks with the confidence of an accomplished sales professional while looking like a game show hostess.

He snatches the clipboard away from her. “I’ll support anything you’d like.”

Sometimes I forget that pretty-girl privilege is real .

A marching band member passes in front of Michael and Miles’s table wearing part of his uniform and carrying his instrument in a big black case. Michael barks, “Hey, Tuba, sign this,” and the kid complies.

Why is this so easy? Why is no one engaging with us? Are people so wrapped up in their own little worlds that they’re willing to endorse anything, as long as it’s no challenge to their intellect? I already hate this exercise so much. What is it that we’re supposed to be learning? That most people suck and don’t care about anything that doesn’t directly impact them? I didn’t need today for proof; I discovered that long ago.

No one will help me and I’m out of time and money. I’ve done everything I can to confirm what happened with Jeremy. I mean, I know . I heard the shot. But I don’t know, not empirically, and I’m a scientist. I need that proof. I’ve spent days trying to get answers, desperately seeking justice or accountability, and I’ve uncovered nothing but dead ends and apathy. The attitude is, it’s a big country, things happen. It’s maddening. So many shrugged shoulders.

The bureaucracy here in Brazil is like nothing I’ve ever experienced, not to mention the corruption. Apparently, I don’t have the financial means to convince anyone to care. I’ve also been to the Australian Consulate-General in S?o Paulo—Jeremy was one of their citizens. They should be outraged, but mostly they’re just confused. They keep saying they have no record of his visa. I’ve talked to journalists, but no one will tackle this story. I’ve haunted the Polícia Federal, and they have no answers, no leads. Nothing I’m doing is working. I can’t even get more than basic information out of Planet BlueLove, but I don’t blame them. They’d give me more if they had it. In this line of work, it’s better if we don’t ask a ton of questions.

I’ve been trying to locate Jeremy’s family in Melbourne, but thousands of people there have the surname Jones. It’s like finding a needle in a haystack, and the Wi-Fi here isn’t as reliable as it should be. I feel like I’m failing at making sure his life had meaning. I want to go to Australia; I’m sure I’ll have more luck in person.

I can’t eat, I can’t sleep, and I have so little fuel in my tank that I’m starting to hallucinate. Yesterday—on my way back from the embassy, again—I could have sworn I saw him through the window of a gourmet restaurant, sipping a caipirinha with a group of well-groomed Brazilian men in suits. I tried to push past the condescending ma?tre d’. Such was my state of agitation, he first assumed I was unhoused and wouldn’t let me enter. Once I got inside, the table was empty. Obviously, my mind wasn’t right. But for one moment, I was so sure.

I am spinning out down here and I don’t know what to do. The consensus is that I need to go back to the US and regroup, but I want to go to Australia. Only Liv has supported me. She even paid for another week in the hotel, despite the fact that I said no. She’s still waiting tables part time as she builds her real estate career. She’s offered more, but I can’t take it, and I will 100 percent pay her back the minute I can.

Even my normally supportive family has had enough. They’re so worried about me that they’re demanding I come home. My dad says there’s a ticket with my name on it at the American Airlines counter. He’s so anxious for me to get out, he’s offered to pay for graduate school. He thinks I should become a professor ... exactly the life I swore I’d never have.

If only I could get someone on my side, everything would be different.

Liv has always had my back, so if this exercise is important to her now, I have to prioritize it. “Let me try again,” I say. She raises an eyebrow, skeptical. “I’ll be nicer, pinky swear.” We lock fingers and she visibly relaxes. Our pinky swears are as solid as a notarized contract. I haven’t violated one in the fifteen-plus years we’ve been friends, and neither has she.

Finally, she hands me the clipboard, and I easily get signatures from three prospective students from Delaware. They’re not old enough to sign anything legally, but since it’s all a farce, it doesn’t matter. Plus, it made Liv happy. I feel like she needs a win.

B-Money is having equally good luck getting signatures. I observe as he approaches a goth student in head-to-toe black, the male version of Wednesday Addams, complete with lace-up platform boots. He’s carrying a parasol to shade his unnaturally white skin. “You down with signing a petition to support testing on animals?” B-Money asks. There’s no way this kid will sign—he has to be antiestablishment.

Shockingly, the student is totally into the idea. “Your performance art is slay.”

After two hours of this, our clipboards are depressingly full of autographs. The only person who’s not gotten any signatures is Vishnu, and the poor guy is beating himself up about it. He crumbles every time he tries to approach anyone. If he had one iota of his brother’s charisma, a single ounce of Jay’s confidence, he’d be the one going out with Liv, I know it.

Despite similar features and build, it’s like Jay and Vishnu aren’t even from the same planet, let alone the same parents. Jay’s assertive and smooth and completely charming. Given how opposite Dee and Liv are, the brothers’ differences make sense. You can have the same of everything—nature and nurture—and still turn out entirely different.

We’re all trying to pump Vishnu up since neither Liv nor I want to leave him before he gets a single signature. (Miles and Michael took off half an hour ago. The signatures were super easy for them because everyone recognized Miles from TikTok and people lined up to talk to him.) I spot the perfect target and grab Vishnu.

“That girl, right there? The one filming herself while she walks? That’s my student, Taylor. You met her at the talent show. Ask her,” I instruct, giving him a gentle shove.

Ever so politely, Vishnu approaches her. “Hello, Ms. Taylor, excuse me, I’m Vishnu. May I have a moment?”

She says, “I don’t know?” but she still stops to hear him out.

Vishnu tries to compose himself. “Thank you so much. Would you please consider endorsing this petition for animal testing in the cosmetic industry?”

“Do you mean against animal testing?” Taylor asks. She looks at the banner and goes from zero to pissed before returning her attention to her live stream, speaking more to the camera than to Vishnu. “Because I know you did not ask me to hurt baby animals when there are so many ah-may-zing cruelty-free brands?”

“I’m so sorry,” he stammers, “I just—”

“Do you even know how medical stuff works?” Her voice gets louder with every word. She’s starting to attract a crowd. I imagine the hearts from her live stream are pouring across her screen right now.

“I mean, I am a radiologist, so—”

“You think because you’re, like, a radio-ologer, it’s okay to blind puppies and kitties? Spoiler alert, they don’t have seeing-eye dogs for dogs!” She addresses both the crowd and the audience on her phone as Vishnu attempts to melt himself into the sidewalk. “This guy? He wants to experiment on your pets? When the FDA doesn’t even require animal testing as a methodology? Is your name Dr. Vishnu Mengele or something?”

I have to admit, That kid is starting to grow on me.

“Did you see? The crowd literally threw a tomato at poor Vishnu,” I say. “I didn’t know that happened outside of cartoons. I have no idea why everyone turned on him specifically, as we were all out there. But he runs like the wind, I’ll give him that. He should come to the track with Liv and me.”

Zeus and I are chatting during a break. I wouldn’t say that I come up with excuses to converse with him every session, but I also wouldn’t say that I don’t. Last week, he, B-Money, and I spent so long talking about the Bears’ preseason (this is our year, I’m sure of it!), Michael and Miles left and Liv and Vishnu fell asleep.

However, I find the best way to interface one-on-one with him is to complain about his methodology, which is annoying because he’s unflappable and my ire seems to amuse him. I say, “So my question is, why? How is getting Vishnu pelted with old produce going to move the needle? In what ways is this training improving us?”

That I feel like our sessions are working sort of makes me angry. It makes no logical sense. We’re participating in bizarre activities, and we keep coming out the other end stronger, for no discernable reason. And every time I ask Zeus about his protocol, he gives me deliberately random answers. He’s a mystery, wrapped in an enigma, who should be on the cover of GQ .

“Emily,” he says. He places a strong hand on my shoulder. His palm is warm without being too hot, and I try to ignore the frisson of electricity that it sparks. “I’m going to paraphrase a bit of wisdom from one of my favorite thinkers. So often people make a choice—that choice is to obsess over the negative things people say about you or obsess over the positive. The problem with either of these approaches is that they both point to you being obsessed with yourself . Giving up that obsession is the key to happiness.”

“Is that Aristotle?” I ask. I appreciate Aristotle. Along with being one of the greatest Sophists in recorded history, he delivered his philosophy in a scientific context. His quote vibes with Aristotle’s thoughts on virtue, which can be best described as all things in moderation, including how we see ourselves in the world. Or maybe this is more Kant or Hume. I’ve got it! I snap my fingers. “John Locke?”

“No, it’s Taylor Swift.” I laugh before I realize he’s not joking. Still, surely he’s kidding. Grown men do not quote pop stars; they just don’t. But then I remember that YouTube video. Before I can grill him, he says, “Emily, this is difficult because you’re learning to be a sheepdog instead of the wolf you once were or the sheep you are now.”

“I am not a sheep,” I say, even though I can think of a thousand times I’ve gone along to get along in the past ten years. What else would you call it when I finally boarded that flight to come home to the US rather than go to Australia? Rather than making the more difficult choice to find Jeremy’s people.

Zeus fixes his topaz gaze on mine, and I have to remind myself to breathe. Is this what it’s like to be around an alpha man again? I mean, we’re having this intense conversation in a room with my boyfriend of more than three years, and I’ve almost entirely forgotten Miles’s existence. The worst part is, Miles is oblivious. He’s knee deep in a conversation with Michael about amino acid–based hair conditioner. Ironically, it’s produced by a company that conducts animal testing.

Zeus says, “Let me explain it in the terms of Dave Grossman’s parable. It’s something he came up with to describe how law officers should view their role. Law enforcement is most effective when officers consider themselves to be sheepdogs that protect the flock.”

“But we’re not police officers. Wait, were you a cop? Are you one now?” I ask. Zeus had to have been either law enforcement or some sort of soldier. He gives off such military vibes. Hold on ... what if he works for a black ops agency? Like a shadowy conspiracy? Although why would an entity like that be interested in any of us? I’m not even secretive about what’s on my final exam. What important information are any of us hiding? Michael doesn’t password-protect his phone. Liv sells condos. B-Money makes coffee. Vishnu is an amateur romance writer. We’re not exactly huge intelligence assets.

Zeus ignores my question. “Sheepdogs keep the sheep safe from danger outside the fence. The sheep? They resent the sheepdogs because those dogs are scary—they look too much like wolves. They growl and bite and have sharp teeth and strong jaws. You know who else hates the sheepdogs? The wolves. Because the sheepdogs are doing their jobs, the wolves go hungry. But every day, the sheepdogs perform their duties, putting their lives on the line to protect those who resent them, and with zero thanks.”

I consider his words, trying to extract their essence and apply them to our group. What I realize is ... “That makes no sense.”

Zeus is steadfast about this philosophy. “Of course it does. If you train the weakest sheep to become ad hoc sheepdogs, those wolves will never see it coming. You guys are powerful and capable. Collectively, you’re a secret weapon, and you should never lose sight of that. Anyway, this will coalesce more after this next challenge.” He claps his hands and everyone jumps. “Gather round, we need to discuss what you’re doing tomorrow.”

I am 95 percent convinced whatever we’re going to do next is ridiculous and that he is a complete fraud.

But I am absolutely living for the 5 percent that actually believes in him.