The Anti-Heroes

Chapter Eighteen LIV

Chapter Eighteen

L IV

“You’re really buying this? You truly believe that these challenges are helping us become our best selves?” Emily grills me. It’s our third time in a week behind the card tables on campus. I had to finagle to get away from the Vandergrifts, so I compromised by starting extra early with them today.

I understand Emily’s reticence. The paces that Zeus has put us through over the past week have been ... trying. That goes without saying. I was worried about how our doing this was going to impact Emily’s job. This is so not kosher. Miles actually stepped in to save the day, as he’s somehow tied this into a research project that Scientific American has expressed interest in publishing, so the university has given us free rein. (Of course, instead of this making Emily relieved, she’s just annoyed.)

We thought the animal testing was hard but had no idea what waited for us—lobbying against the campus smoking ban. We handed out cigarettes! Actual cancer-causing cigarettes! I had to stop Michael from letting children have them! Only giving away firearms on the quad would have made many of the passersby angrier. That Zeus may have been laughing at us from a bench behind a newspaper did not help appease Emily.

What’s ironic is that so many of the people who were furious with us for promoting smoking lectured us with vapes in hand. Of course, Emily had to engage with them. Equally dismaying were all the people excited to take free cigarettes. One girl asked Emily if smoking would help her lose weight. Emily was all, “I imagine you’ll drop a few pounds during the chemo.” And then the girl took a handful, almost a whole pack! The more I learn about humanity, the more convinced I am that most people will accept anything if it’s free, regardless of how offensive, reckless, or dangerous.

Today, though? Today might just finish Emily off. She is positively fuming because we’re lobbying to end women’s suffrage . I assumed that students would be savvier, that they would understand we were asking them to endorse a petition to revoke a woman’s right to vote. But the wording on our materials is deceptive, and most people are so distracted by their phones, they’re only half paying attention. “Suffrage” is a tricky word, kind of like “apartheid.” The definition is so important, but also easy to confuse for the opposite meaning. I’m sure that is exactly why Zeus chose the topic.

The petitions aren’t the hardest part, though, because a lot of people also conflate suffrage and suffering, so they figure it’s about reversing the Supreme Court decision on Roe v. Wade and happily grab a clipboard. Argh. But that’s not the worst part. That honor goes to giving signees their free gift—a BPA-full (not BPA-free) plastic water bottle with a graphic logo that reads, No Votes for Fat Chicks . It’s a lot to swallow while maintaining a good attitude.

Before I can answer Emily’s question about whether these challenges are actually helping us, a frat rat clad in flip-flops and a basketball tank sidles up. He signs the petition without any convincing. Emily is livid, with spots of color high on her cheeks. “You realize this is to end women’s suffrage, right? As in deny women the right to vote?”

“Amen, I’m with ya. Let’s repeal the Nineteenth Amendment, baby!” crows the frat rat as he pumps his fist in the air.

“Thank you so much for trying to set back the women’s movement one hundred years,” Emily hisses. I can see her calculating whether she wants to risk a seventh arrest or whether it’s worth ruining her chances for tenure. It must not be, because she backs down, but begrudgingly.

The guy stands there with a cheese-eating grin on his face. “Well? Don’t I get my water bottle?”

Lightning fast, Emily hurls the bottle at him, and it nails him in the breadbasket. For someone who hasn’t played the sport in years, her pitching arm is still quite something. The bottle is light, so it does no damage, fortunately for Emily’s current relationship with freedom. The frat guy appraises us while stuffing a crumbly brown wad of dip between his lip and gum. “You just proved my point. That’s exactly why you don’t deserve the right to vote.” As he saunters off, I notice he’s using the water bottle as a tobacco spittoon. Gross.

Emily points to Zeus and his newspaper. “ He has gone too far. Every time I think our challenges can’t get worse, they do. We’re not out here being rejected; we’re out here getting mad.”

Every time Zeus assigns us something, Emily comes more alive in her opposition, possibly because he’s watching us. The only feeling Emily loves more than righteous indignation is fighting the powers that be, and Zeus has delivered both in spades. This challenge couldn’t be more perfect for her. She won’t admit it, but he’s forcing her to find the purpose she lost long ago, exactly as he promised in our initial session. She’s practically reborn. I love every part of Emily, but I missed this take-no-prisoners side of Action Emily. She’s been hiding behind messy buns and apathy and Miles for far too long.

“Right, and I’m sure that’s the point,” I say. “This task isn’t about facing our fear of rejection. It can’t be. So far, every assignment has been some sort of misdirection. What if the real goal is for us to get fired up enough to, say, quit the brokerage or dump Miles? You can’t take this task literally. No sane person would have us out here promoting smoking, animal cruelty, or reversing the right to vote.”

I’m not sure she’s ready to see the genius of his plan, but my words have nudged her needle out of the red. She seems to collect herself. “What if ... what if it’s about us exercising our free will? What if he wants to see that we’ll buck the rules? Like we’re conquering a fear of nonconformity? Like we think this is bullshit, so we pack it up early?” Emily suggests, hopeful that I’ll agree.

Who knows? That might be exactly his plan. I nod with encouragement.

I look around to see how the guys are faring. Miles and Michael abandoned their table after giving out their water bottles. They left, saying something about having watery iced coffees at the café. B-Money and Vishnu are in the thick of it, still in possession of most of their inventory. I spot a crowd of pretty girls in sorority letters, led by Emily’s student. They’re advancing on Vishnu, who looks like he’s ready to cower under his card table. It’s clear they understand what the word “suffrage” means.

“I agree, let’s wrap it up,” I say. I’m supposed to see Jay later, so I like the idea of ending this a bit early. We’ve had such an amazing time over the past few weeks, but I’m worried I’m losing his interest. A couple nights ago, I was set to cook him dinner, but my stove broke. I’ve wanted that thing to crap out for years, but not on what was supposed to be a special night. DoorDash delivery wasn’t the evening I’d planned. And this time, he’d had to dip out early because of some work emergency. I feel like I need to get it right tonight, or else.

We notice the crowd around Vishnu growing louder and more aggressive. Emily says, “I should intervene. These kids know me and they’ll listen to me. Do you mind packing up the table? Then we can take it all to the car together.”

“Of course!”

As Emily heads down the path, I notice something small, round, and airborne on a collision course with Vishnu. He ducks down as the object explodes with a red splat on the card table he’s now using as a shield.

Where does everyone keep finding these tomatoes on campus?

This is the second emergency session Zeus has called this week. I suspect we’re building up to something. The first time, I had to let down Jay again. He didn’t even sound mad, just ... resigned. At least it wasn’t my fault this time. Sparring will feel good; I have some frustration to release.

To prepare, I’m stretching by the boxing ring; Vishnu and B-Money join me. “I meant to ask last time—did any of the tomatoes hit you?” I ask Vishnu.

“No, no, no problem! I was fine,” he assures me.

“You were picking tomato seeds out of your ear, my man,” B-Money says.

“Maybe just a few. Definitely not enough to make a whole marinara sauce. Anyway, Liv, how fortuitous it is that you hit it off with my brother. Jay talks about you every day at work. Which does not bother me in the least,” he says.

“He has to be so frustrated,” I say. I bend over to loosen up my hamstrings. “Between work and home, I feel like I’m getting sucked away with too many unnecessary obligations.”

“All that sucking in so many directions must be painful,” he says. He’s also flipped upside down to maintain eye contact.

B-Money slaps Vishnu on the small of his back. “What?” Vishnu says, righting himself. “I’m having a conversation.”

“You were having an aneurysm, bro. I’m saving you from yourself,” B-Money says.

I love seeing how their friendship is growing. They’re such an unlikely pair.

“Anyway, at least I didn’t have to let him down tonight. He was the one who had to cancel for a work thing. You guys must be so busy too,” I say. I was relieved when he had to bail.

Vishnu appears puzzled. “But he doesn’t work—” Before he can complete his thought, Zeus materializes from the darkness and we all gasp.

“You should wear a bell,” Emily grouses.

“First order of business,” Zeus says. “I want to say that Vishnu received the fewest signatures on all the petitions. Vishnu, can you come over here?”

“I am terribly sorry,” Vishnu says as he makes his way to Zeus. “I will try harder to—”

“That means you’re the winner!”

“What? How does that make him the winner?” Emily demands. Even though she found every exercise repugnant, she hustled hard enough to leave everyone else in the dust. She even got twice the signatures I did and I sell professionally. I think there’s something very familiar about clipboards for her. Maybe they feel like coming home.

“He had the most rejections, which means he had to face his fear of rejection most often,” Zeus explains.

“What’d my man win?” B-Money asks.

“Our admiration and respect,” Zeus replies.

“Well, thank you very much. I never win anything!” Vishnu says, beaming with pride.

“You also receive this.” Zeus hands Vishnu a straw basket lined with a gingham napkin. It’s full of ripe tomatoes. “How much better will these tomatoes taste when they’re not being whipped at your head?”

“Quite a bit, I suppose,” he replies. What a lovely man he is. He genuinely seems grateful for everything.

“There’s a card too.”

Vishnu opens the card and then squeals with delight. He does a happy little jig before announcing, “There’s a gift card! A $250 gift card to the Olive Garden! I hope everyone will please join me for a delicious dinner!”

We all cheer, even Michael, jazzed to see Vishnu so pleased. See? Our tasks are never quite what they seem. I’m glad to see Vishnu get a win; he deserves it.

“It’s not going to be tonight, though,” Zeus says. “We’ll be working late because I won’t be here next week.”

“But we have less than two weeks left!” Emily exclaims.

Zeus shrugs. “I have an urgent matter.”

“What sort of urgent matter?” she persists.

“You’re doing spy stuff, right? Pretty sure my man is James Bond. Who are you working for, the CIA? MI6? Better not be the GRU, hacking elections and shit,” B-Money says.

“This is exactly what I’ve been saying all along!” Emily exclaims. She and B-Money put their heads together and begin to whisper. B-Money and Emily are convinced that there’s some higher purpose to Fearless Inc. and that all is not what it seems. They are bound and determined to find out.

Zeus ignores them. He picks up a manila folder adorned with some kind of anime-looking strawberry logo. Cute! He briefly reads the contents and then says, “The task is to address your fear of saying no. Because saying no leads to confrontation. And you’re all terrified of confrontation.”

I don’t know that that’s entirely true. Emily’s not afraid of confrontation. It used to be her raison d’être. Then I spot her glowering at Miles, and I realize that breaking up with him would be a form of confrontation and she’s been dancing around it for months. So I guess Zeus isn’t wrong. Most of us nod. Guilty as charged.

Michael says, “I’m not afraid to say no. I say no all day long. It’s literally my job.”

“Great,” Zeus says. “You’re in charge.”

“Are you kidding?” Emily fumes.

“Say what?” asks B-Money.

“Congratulations?” says Vishnu.

“Congratulations,” declares Miles.

Zeus stares me down. “Liv? What do you think?”

“I think you have a plan and we should trust it?” I say.

Zeus looks deeply disappointed. He crosses his arms over his chest, hugging the folder. “None of you said no to Michael leading the group, not one of you. You all failed the first part of this assignment.” He nods toward a preening Michael. “Except for you, brother.”

Zeus then vanishes into the din and returns with a small object. He tosses it to Michael. Michael inspects it and then blows hard on the silver whistle, saying, “Look at me, I’m the captain now.”

“I’ll have a bottle of Chianti,” I say. I’m late meeting the group at the Olive Garden. Joyce and John wanted to check out how a place on Old Glenview Road looked in the twilight. I took them at their word, but really, they wanted to see if any “unsavory” elements were on the street at night. The only thing unsavory was Joyce’s sartorial choice. Four different plaids in one ensemble are three too many. We ran into Dr. Farooqi, the oral surgeon who removed my wisdom teeth, and now the Old Glenview listing is out because of “the ethnic element.” I’m disgusted. How does anyone expect to find a place when they despise everyone who’s even a tiny bit different from them? Since when did hate become a reasonable strategy by which to conduct one’s life? Or real estate search?

“Wait, do you mean a glass?” the waiter asks.

“I do not.” While I wait for my wine to arrive, I help myself to an already open bottle on the table, tossing it back like a shot rather than a full-bodied cabernet.

Emily looks up from her phone, mouthing, “WTF?” but I just shake my head. I don’t have it in me to explain.

“Welcome to our group dinner! And hello, Liv, how was your day?” Vishnu asks. He seems so proud to be hosting us. As much as I like Jay, there’s something so childlike and guileless about Vishnu that Jay’s missing. I don’t know why someone nice hasn’t swooped him up, except it would probably terrify him.

I drink another shot/glass. “Fan-freaking-tastic. My incredibly demanding clients are racist, sexist, misogynist, and ableist.” The last one surprised me. Who knew that they’d take issue with a home accommodated for the injured Iraq war veteran who lived there? That hero lost a leg to an IED while fighting for America . How can you have an issue with that? How?

“That’s a lot of ‘ists.’ At least they are not homophobic?” Vishnu offers.

I take another chug, thinking about the rainbow flag incident earlier in the month. “Nope, they were that first. I accidentally left that out.”

From across the table, B-Money shouts something, then he and Emily hoot and high-five. “We did it!” Emily cheers, holding up her phone like it’s the golden ticket.

“Did what?” Vishnu asks.

“Found Zeus’s Instagram!” B-Money clarifies.

“How?” I ask. “Emily’s been cyberstalking him for weeks and nothing.” I shoot a look in Miles’s direction and clap a hand over my mouth. I should not have said that out loud. Fortunately, he and Michael are too busy debating over the appetizer list.

“I cracked the code. See, Emily tried every iteration of all things Zeus, but she couldn’t find anything. Then I remembered how he told us he has two great loves. We started plugging in every exotic bird type and Swiftian song lyric and finally hit on it!” B-Money and Emily are absolutely elated.

“What is his username?” I ask.

Sheepishly, B-Money says, “Zeus_loves_birds_and_Tay.”

“That’s some fancy sleuthing, kids,” Michael snorts. “Okay, I’m ordering for the table. Everyone like fried calamari?”

“Ugh, no, too rubbery,” Emily says.

“I don’t mess with tentacles,” B-Money says.

“I am allergic to mollusks,” Vishnu says.

“Do they have a face? I don’t eat anything with a face,” Miles says.

“Fifty-three homes. How can anyone hate fifty-three homes? It’s statistically impossible,” I say, then drain my glass again. The waiter brings my bottle, and I snatch it out of his hands before he can place it on the table.

“Um, Livvy? Do you want to cut that with some water? Maybe a Diet Coke?” Emily asks. “Remember that night at Lambda Chi when you didn’t realize the punch had rum in it?”

We had to throw out our metal waste can after that night, and to this day, I can’t look at rum. I assure her, “I’m good.”

“Okay, then,” the waiter says. “May I start you with some appetizers? Everyone loves our spinach-artichoke dip and our toasted ravioli.” We look at each other and nod—they all sound good. “We also have a special tonight. It’s deep-fried squash blossoms.” More nods of approval. “I forgot, there’s a cheese plate.”

Fuck cheese plates, I think, at which point everyone stops what they’re doing and looks at me with widened eyes. Uh oh, I think I said that out loud.

Michael says, “Six orders of calamari, please.” We all grumble and Michael blows his whistle. “Y’all just failed the second test.”

“Does Jay like me or does Jay like me like me?” I ask Vishnu. I’m having a wee bit of trouble seeing him through my haze of tasty wine. Vishnu’s face looks funny. I poke at it because his head is like cotton candy or a pi?ata or an emoji. So bulbous. So big and kind. His eyes are little slits and his lips are like Polish sausages. “Why do you have hot dog lips?”

Vishnu tells me, “I know that he is fond of you, and who would not be? You are a fine lady and beautiful on the inside, where it is most important. But I believe my brother is a man who might not yet be serious, so please do not pin hopes on him, I beg you.”

I feel like Vishnu is trying to tell me something, but I don’t know what. “I’m always serious,” I say. “Is your face usually this round?”

Michael blows the whistle. “That’s for your allergic reaction.”

“You insisted I taste your clam linguini!” Vishnu says.

“You didn’t say no,” Michael counters.

“I did say no! Many times. Mollusk allergy.”

“Did you say it fifty-three freaking times?” I ask.

“Who’s driving Liv home?” Emily asks. “I’m happy to do it, but she’s in the opposite direction from me.”

“I thought we had plans,” Miles protests.

“You really think I’m going to leave my best friend this drunk in a chain restaurant?” Emily replies. She seems expaster ... exparest ... extrapo ... mad.

“I don’t need your ride. Jay is picking me up. He told me to call when I was done and maybe he would be free. I’ve been calling and callllllllling but he’s not answering.”

B-Money clucks his tongue and exchanges a look with Emily. “Guuuurl ...”

“He must not be free,” I say. I look at my phone. “There’s a lot of texts but nothing from my boyfriend.”

“Is Jay your boyfriend now?” Vishnu asks.

“He is in my head,” I reply, and I begin to hiccup. “I believe I was overserved. Someone should speak to the maamager ... manger ... mandible ... person in charge.”

“I would be happy to drive you home, Liv,” Vishnu offers.

Michael blows his whistle and starts barking instructions. He points to Vishnu. “You, take your fat head to the ER.” To Emily and Miles, “You go home with your boyfriend and have a conversation.” To B-Money, “You, well, you don’t have to go home but you can’t stay here.”

Our waiter says, “Why can’t he stay here? We’re open for another hour.”

Michael blasts his whistle again and points to me. “You. Let’s go.”

“I assumed you had better taste,” Michael says, surveying my apartment. He runs a finger over an armoire, checking for dust, and turns my knickknacks over in his hands. “The couch and rug are nice, artwork’s decent, but those kitchen cabinets? That countertop? Jack and Chrissy want the Ropers to upgrade, stat. Blech.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know who your friends are, but Ma won’t let me change things. She says it’s gotta stay the way it was when Daddy left in case he ever comes back,” I explain.

My balance is not balancing. Were my floors always so tilted? I feel like I’d recall them being tilted. Oh no ... I think my floors have slanted, like a villain’s lair in the old Batman show. Now I’m so sad. Am I the bad guy now? My slanty floors point to yes. I start to tear up and sniffle, so I reach into Michael’s jacket for his pocket square and blow my nose. Because I am polite. Then I hand it back to him.

“Yuck. Don’t get your sad country western lyrics all over me, honey,” he says, rejecting the square. For good measure, he blasts his whistle, and I clamp my hands over my ears.

So loud! So sharp! “I am not a fan of your whoostle.”

“Confront me, then. Tell me to stop.”

I consider the best way to do this. “Sir, if it’s not too much to ask, would you mind hooting your whoostle a teeny lil bit less?”

He blasts his whoostle again. “Fail. Try again. Demand, not ask.”

Before I can rephrase my request, Dee comes busting in. “You have to take Ma to the ER!”

“Now what?” I ask.

“Polio.”

“Marco?” I ask.

“No,” she says. “Polio.”

“Marco?”

Michael blasts his whoostle and that helps me understand what she’s saying. “Oh, polio. The horses who play golf. Sounds legit to me. And you can’t go because ... is it because the horses can’t swim?”

“Can’t have my kids catching polio.”

I think I am too drinky to argue.

“Polio?” Michael says, seeming appalled. “Is it 1934 again?”

“’Sa long story. Can you drive us?”

He laughs. “You certainly can’t.”

“Ma!” I shout. “We’re coming!”

Michael takes one last look at my apartment. “Have you ever considered moving out?” he asks.

“Fifty-three times every day.” I reach for his whoostle and blow into it. He quickly swats it out of my hands.

“Stop it. That’s annoying.”

I grab his face with my hands and look deep into his eyes. “Teach me your ways.”