Reality Boy
He’s hunched over now, still spurting blood. He’s tired. He tries to aim for my head a few times, but I dodge and block and slam him one in the gut and one in the chest that knocks the wind out of him and he doubles in half and while he’s bent over, I take my knee and jam it into his face and his head and he backs away and I kick at him like I’m an animal.
I am an animal. Jacko has just broken me out of my cage.
“Whoa! Whoa!” someone says. It’s Bob the trainer. “Jesus, guys! What the hell?”
Before now, nothing existed outside of this ring. Now there’s Bob. And Jacko is bleeding a river.
“What the hell, kid?” Bob says again. I’m breathing fast, my mouth forced open by the mouth guard, and then I realize he’s talking to me.
What the hell, kid?
Jacko isn’t saying anything, either, as Bob shoves shit up his nose and takes a soaking sponge to his face to see where the cuts are. I’m still dancing. Hopping. Waiting. My body is in destroy mode. Bob walks over to me and motions for me to hold out my gloves. He pulls them off and my hands are like clubs.
“You didn’t even tape up?” he asks.
It echoes. You didn’t even tape up?
It’s a dumb question, asked by someone who thinks we thought about this. Like Bob hasn’t met angry, impulsive teenage boys before today.
He makes me sit on a stool in the corner of the ring with my hands in a bucket of ice water. He takes Jacko to the office and as I sit there, I wonder again if Hannah will visit me in jail.
“I’ll visit,” Snow White says.
“I will, too,” Lisi says.
“I’d really like to talk about it now,” I say.
They disappear and it echoes. I’d really like to talk about it now.
34
I AM IN my happy place, surfing the Internet with ice on my cheek and ribs and hands and anywhere else I can put it. Mom asked me what the ice was for. I told her I’d been at the gym and that my hands hurt. That didn’t surprise her at all.
She’s going to see my cheek, though, if it bruises. And so will Roger, at tomorrow’s appointment. It’s not like I came out looking as bad as the fake Jamaican, though. He was so messed up, I’m checking my window for the cops every five minutes.
The Internet helps me forget. Some guys watch music videos. Some guys watch p**n . I watch circus videos because I really think I’m going to do it. I really think Joe Jr. is wrong about how great I have it. He doesn’t live in a cage, you know?
As I play the same trapeze video over and over and stare at the monitor, I try to will myself into Gersday, with no luck. It’s as if Gersday has been hacked and someone changed my password.
The trapeze artists are like magic. It’s a circus in Monaco, where no one has heard of the Crapper. These three Asian women and three Asian men do this act. It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen in my life—so many spins and twists, and then they manage to catch each other in midair. How do they do that? I half think about trying it—trapeze—but then I remember that everything is pointless, like boxing. Learning trapeze would only mean I would never be able to actually perform on a trapeze.
I click on a different video and I watch a guy do a double flip and miss his catch and land in the net. The audience applauds anyway.
I hear Mom call my name, but I ignore it. Then she calls again. “Gerald! Phone!”
I go into my parents’ bedroom to pick up the cordless and I can’t figure out who would call me at home. I think maybe it’s Lisi and she got my mental message that I needed to talk. Or maybe it’s the police.
“Hey,” Hannah says. Then Mom hangs up.
My heart stops for a second when I realize it’s her.
“You there?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “Hi. How’d you—uh—I mean, wow. I was pretty sure our number was unlisted.”
“It is,” she says.
“Oh.” I walk to my room quickly so Mom can’t hear me, and I close the door.
“Beth gave it to me,” she explains.
I’m pretty sure Beth only had my cell number, but whatever. It really doesn’t matter now, does it? “So hey. You working on Wednesday?” I ask. “Dollar Night. Should be a riot.”
“I didn’t call to talk about work,” she says. “I called to talk about you.”
“Me?”
“You.”
“What about me? I mean—yeah. What about me?” I say.
“I like you. I want to go out on a date or something. Together,” she says. “And before you tell me again that you’re not allowed, you should know that I’m not allowed, either, and that my parents can’t know and my brother sure as hell can’t know.”
I’m in Gersday. My desk is made of waffle cone. I am ice cream. Peach soft-serve ice cream.
“Gerald?” she says.
“Yeah.”
“And just so you know, this isn’t some defiant shit I’m doing. I mean—I’ve liked you for a while and I was too shy to say anything because, well, you’re Gerald.”
I say, “Wow. I had no idea.” And then after an uncomfortable second of searching for something else to say, I say, “I’d love to take you on a date…. God. That sounds so retarded.”
“Don’t say that,” she says.
“What?”
“Going on a date doesn’t sound retarded. Plus, that word bugs me. So there’s rule number one. No saying retarded.”
“Huh,” I say. “I hear it a lot, so I guess it doesn’t really bug me anymore. But if we’re making rules, I have one.”
“Yes, we’re making rules. What’s yours?”
I have no idea what my rule is, so I blurt out, “No musicals. I really hate musicals. Movies, stage, any musicals, forget it,” I say. This is a joke, but she doesn’t laugh. She sounds nervous. You don’t seriously believe she likes you, right? You’re probably on speakerphone right now, her friends huddled around with their hands over their mouths, giggling.
“That’s easy. I hate musicals, too,” she says. “And no chick flicks. I hate that shit.”
“Deal,” I say. I reach up to my face with my sore right hand and feel my smile. I trace it with my index finger.
“How can being called retarded not bug you?” she asks. “I mean, you know. I know everyone in your class has been called something at least once, but still.”