Reality Boy (20 page)

“That was dramatic,” she says.

“What?”

“That big sigh you just did.”

“You’re sitting in front of the word
asshole,
which
you
wrote on my
car,
and you call me dramatic? Seriously. You—the girl who ran away to get murdered,” I say. “That’s some pot calling the kettle black.”

“That’s racist,” she says.

“It is not,” I say.

“It is. Totally.”

“Fine. Then you’re the snow calling the clouds white. Whatever,” I say.

The heat kicks in and I turn the fan up and we both put our cold hands on the vents to get warm.

“You know,” I say, “you’re not the easiest person to talk to, either.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah. Really. You could be nicer,” I say.

“Well, at least I don’t just disappear into another world like you do. Because that’s just weird,” she says. “And I want us to have a nice relationship.”

I back out of the parking space and head down the exit ramp.

She asks, “Don’t you want us to have a nice relationship, too?”

I point to the word
ASSHOLE
. But I smile, so she hits me lightly on the arm and says, “I promise I will clean that off tomorrow morning when you come get me for school. I have the perfect stuff to do it.”

“Tomorrow morning? So part of this nice relationship is me being your chauffeur?” I say. Still smiling.

“Yes. And I promise to never break rule number three again,” she says. “Unless you want to talk about it. Because I’m sure it will come up at some point, considering it must have messed you up really bad.”

“Yes. Yes, it did,” I say. “But I’m not as messed up as I was.”

“Good,” she says. “Because I’m getting more messed up every day living with my crazy parents and there’s only so much room in this asshole’s car for all our emotional baggage.”

I laugh and she laughs and I don’t feel like an asshole.

Until she’s gone.

Driving home by myself, I feel like an asshole. In fact, the closer I get to the house, the more it comes on, as if my proximity to my mother and sister makes me into exactly what they need me to be.

Fuck that shit, Gerald.

When I get home, I get Joe Jr.’s e-mail and I follow the link to a YouTube video. It’s titled
Great Trampoline Act
. Under it, the info says:
Two acrobats on a trampoline in Bonifay, FL.

It’s Joe on a trampoline doing flips and twists and other cool things with another guy who’s dressed the same. I assume it’s his brother, because they look alike. They have the act down and it goes for about two minutes. It was filmed in a big empty barn with no seats or people watching, but they’re in costumes and they bow after each big trick as if there is an audience.

That’s my whole life, right there—bowing as if there is an audience. I still can’t pick my nose in my own bedroom, even though the guys from the TV channel came and patched up the little holes in our walls from the camera mounts ten years ago.

FRIDAY MORNING I
am in Snow White’s guidance-counseling office in Gersday.

“I want to get out of Mr. Fletcher’s class.”

Snow White the guidance counselor looks concerned.

“I mean, I love Mr. Fletcher,” I say, and I look at him sitting to my right. “But I shouldn’t be in the special ed room. It’s a long story. It’s just—all that stuff from my past and how my parents handled it and stuff. But I’m fine up here.” I tap my head with my index finger. “And I want to go to college.”

“Your grades aren’t great. And you know your discipline record, so I don’t have to tell you that.” Snow White the guidance counselor tries to keep a straight face while pretending to be stern.

“But I can do it, right? I can go to college?”

“We’ll try, Gerald,” she says. “You just keep this positive attitude and stay out of trouble and it’s totally possible.”

I nod because my inner director told me to nod. This is the scene I want on TV. Boy makes good of himself. Boy takes a shit sandwich and turns it into a scrumptious meal. Boy calls himself on his walkie-talkie and says,
Dude—you’re better than this. Why are you letting them do this to you?
Boy meets girl. Girl writes
ASSHOLE
on his dashboard and then erases it with magic junkyard solvent the next morning. Boy finds life worth living.

This should be a reality TV show. Except nobody would watch because it’s no fun to watch normal people do normal things. Because happy stories aren’t all that interesting. Because everyone wants to eat that shit sandwich, or watch other people eat it, along with exotic bugs and rotten eggs and diesel fuel and everything else producers can think of to keep viewers’ thumbs away from the channel button on the remote control.

Not me.

I’ve eaten enough shit sandwiches, thank you.

Hannah meets me at my locker at the end of the day. She has her phone in her hand and is reading text messages and says hi while I exchange some books for other books and stuff them into my backpack. I’ve spent the whole day in Gersday,
pretending that I talked to the guidance counselor. I’ve spent the whole day looking for Lisi, but I can’t find her anywhere.

“You ready for the big night?” Hannah asks.

I make a face like I don’t follow.

“Rivals. Should be packed. Hockey—you know? Our job?” she says.

“Oh. Right,” I say. “Shit. I forgot my pants.”

She laughs.

“No. I mean I forgot my work pants. We’re gonna be late,” I say. “Shit.”

“Can’t we just go to your house and get them? It won’t take that long, will it?”

We
and
your house
just don’t sound right in the same sentence. I can’t take Hannah to my house.

“The mall. We can stop at the mall. I know where to go and I know my size. It’ll be easier,” I say.

“Easier than what? Going to your house to get a pair of pants? Seriously, Gerald. You’ve seen where I live. It can’t be much worse than that.”

“Uh. You—uh. Look. If we leave now, I can just stop at the mall. No big deal.”

“I’ll even hide in the car if you want,” she says. “Is it
that
bad? You having a girlfriend?”

We walk down the hall toward the exit doors and Hannah seems sad now. I want to ask her what’s wrong, but I don’t want to fight again. I just want this day to keep going right. Straight to college. I want this day to just lead me to college.

“Does this have something to do with your chest?”

“My chest?”

“The bruises. I saw them. Last night.”

“Oh,” I say. “Shit. No. I box. That’s from a fight I had on Monday at the gym. Guy was like a train.”

“Mm,” she says. Once we get into the car, she asks, “It’s me, isn’t it?”

“What? No. Shit. Of course not.”

“I’m the junkman’s daughter.”

“You are not the junkman’s daughter,” I say.

“Then why can’t we just go to your house and pick up a stupid pair of pants?” she says.

I look at my clean dashboard. I worry what she’ll write on it if I say no.

“Fine. You’re right. We’ll go to my house. I can run in and get the pants and run out again.”

“Exactly,” she says. “You can thank the junkman’s daughter for saving you fifty bucks, too.”

I laugh. “Yes. Thank you.”

As I drive, I finally find Lisi on the trapeze. I tell her about college and about how Snow White said I could go.

“Gerald?”

“Yeah?”

“Did you hear what I said?” Hannah asks.

“Shit. Sorry. I was spaced-out again. What did you say?”

“I said that I’ve never been in a gated community before,” she says.

“Oh,” I say. “It’s really not as special as it seems. I mean, there’s a gate. And a little booth with a security guard. That’s about it.”

“Sounds a lot like my house, eh?” She laughs.

“You know, it’s not as bad as you think it is, your house. It’s weird for you, but it’s not like—a freak show or anything.”

“If only they made a reality TV show out of us… then you’d see just how weird it is,” she says.

I pull into the drive and stop at the gate. The security guard knows me, so he makes the gate go up without me having to enter my pass code into the box. He waves. Hannah waves at him and he smiles. I think maybe he’s happy for me.

Hannah stays in the car and I run into the house and grab my pants. It takes me all of two minutes. Hannah says, “That was fast.”

As I back down the drive, I catch Mom looking out the upstairs window like a woman from one of those old short stories they make us read in school. Like she wants to jump out.

MIKE, THE KID
from two doors over who Tasha was now “dating” even though it made Dad cringe every time Mom said it, was over at our house. His parents had signed a waiver so he could be part of the show.

He and Tasha were making homemade cookies together in the kitchen.

Dad was still at work. Mom was at the kitchen table yelling out the amounts and ingredients like the good, wholesome chaperone she was expected to be.

When I wandered into the kitchen, Tasha and Mike were having a great time, throwing teaspoons of flour at each other. And sugar. The director gave me the hand signal to stop and go away. I played dumb and kept walking in. I saw from the
whiteboard next to him that they were on take three of the same scene, so I tiptoed in and played it very innocent and watched the scene unfold.

Only when Tasha took a wet-with-batter spatula and smacked Mike on the cheek with it did it begin to get ugly. He did the same then, with a spoon. She said, “Ow!” and gave him a warning glance. He said sorry, but didn’t mean it. So then she said, “You better watch it, because I could pour this whole bowl of batter down your pants.”

“Cut!” the director said. He looked to Tasha. “Pants? Come on. You’re twelve!”

“Shoot,” Tasha said. “I meant to say shirt, but pants seemed more real. Sorry.”

“Mike lays in Tasha’s bed all the time without his pants on,” I said.

Everyone got quiet and looked at me. Then they looked at Tasha and Mike, who looked around the room. Mike looked as if he was figuring out which way to run. Tasha looked for the first person to hit. Mike was closest.

She slapped him across the face and then ran to Mom and buried her head in Mom’s shoulder, leaving a glob of cookie batter on her sweatshirt.

Mom held Tasha at arm’s length and said, “Is this true?”

“Of course not!” Tasha said. “You know Gerald is retarded. You said so yourself.”

“I’m not retarded,” I said.

“Are so,” she said. “And you’re gay.”

Nanny transformed at that moment. She suddenly didn’t
care what her hair looked like or whether her dress was the right color for the scene. She didn’t care where her designer purse was or whether her bottled water was the right brand.

She told the cameras to stop rolling and took me and Mom into the living room, away from Mike and Tasha, who were still fighting in the kitchen.

“Calling a young child gay is
awful
,” Nanny said. “It’s an unacceptable word. Totally.”

“The kid craps in my shoes and you say Tasha using the word
gay
is harmful?” Mom asked.

“Jill!”

“What?” Mom said.

“He’s sitting right
he-ah
!” Nanny said.

“So?” Mom said. “You can see why I think there’s something wrong with him, right?” Mom got up and went back into the kitchen just as Mike was running out the door.

Nanny turned to me and gave me a sympathetic look. “Was it true what you said about him being in Tasha’s bed?”

“Yes,” I said.

“And you were here, too? You and Lisi?”

I nodded.

“Right,” she said. “I think I know what to do here, Gerald.” She looked at me with a smile. Like a real nanny.

The next day was the last day of filming. We had to do the usual end-of-episode family meeting. Dad was home from
work for an hour, tops, still in his work suit, and doing that thing with his ankles that he does when he’s stressed out. Like neck rolls, but with ankles. Around and around. Clockwise, then counterclockwise. His tarsal bones cracked each time, like popcorn. Lisi and I sat next to him.