Reality Boy

“Where do you think we should start?” she asked me. “Maybe the walls?”

The director cued Mom, who said, “I still think I should get professionals in to do it. I can call them. They can be here in a few hours.”

Nanny put her hand up. “This is Gerald’s mess. He needs to clean it up. It’s part of his learning responsibility.” She looked at me and knelt down to be right at my level. “Why do you torture Tasha so? She loves you. Don’t you know that?”

I had so many things to say.

I had so many things to say.

Instead, I slammed my fist into Nanny’s nose so hard it bled the minute I made contact.

“Cut!”

People gathered around her. Mom grabbed my arm and pulled me into my room. All I could hear was Nanny yelling, “Fuck it! Fuck it!” I heard her throwing things. I heard her slamming doors. Mom and I just stood there inside my bedroom door, listening.

Then Mom bent down and said, “Gerald, that’s it. I think they’re leaving. We’re going to have to give all that money back.”

I shrugged.

“We need that money, Gerald,” she said, shaking me. “You have to go say you’re sorry. We only have a few scenes left to tape. You have to do it.”

“I don’t have to do anything,” I said.

She grabbed me by the arms and squeezed me so hard, I had bruises for a week. “You will apologize, and then you will go to your room for the rest of the day.”

So we went out, her right hand still crushing my right arm, and we looked for Nanny. The cameramen and crew were tossing all their equipment into the vans that were parked in our driveway.

Mom met the director on the way out. “Give us one more chance,” she said.

“We have enough tape.”

“But he’s not fixed!” Mom said.

The director just laughed and laughed and looked right at me. “Good luck with that,” he said.

I remember looking at the director and seeing his shiny shoes and knowing that my suffering had paid for them. My mother’s words ran over my brain. We need that money, Gerald.

Nanny came out from the TV crew truck and Mom dragged me over to her and said, “What do you say?”

“Fuck you,” I said. Mom squeezed so hard.

Nanny Elizabeth Harriet Smallpiece, still holding an ice pack to her nose, leaned down right then and said, “I look forwah-d to your lett-ahs from prison.” Then she got in a waiting car and closed the door.

My mother was squeezing me so hard now I could feel pins and needles in my hand. She dragged me back inside and we watched, all five of us, as the entire show was emptied from our house and our lawn and our road. It took all of ten minutes. Mom squeezed my arm the whole time.

She sighed.

Dad said, “Rob said we get to keep the money, so that’s something, anyway.”

Tasha glared at me until I looked at her.

Mom said, “Apologize to your sister. Now.”

I said, “Sorry, Tasha,” because they were gone. Tasha’s doll was disfigured. Her room was painted with shit. My job was done.

And so I went to my room and took a nap. A ten-year-long nap. The Gerald who didn’t have to do anything he didn’t want to do has taken a ten-year-long nap.

The Gerald who had control over his life is awake again.

Good morning.

How did you sleep?

52

HANNAH DRIVES LIKE a maniac. After Washington, D.C., when I got too tired to drive, I asked her if she had a valid license. She punched me in the arm so hard, it still hurts.

“I have my first demand,” she says. “I demand people stop underestimating me.”

“That’s kinda abstract for a kidnapping note,” I say.

She punches me again. It makes me uncomfortable, how easy it is to punch me like that.

“It is,” I say.

“Just go to sleep. I’ll get us around D.C. and we’ll stop for some food, okay? Unless you plan on eating that chicken salad all day.”

I curl up on her sweatshirt, which is like stuffing my face into a berry patch, and I think of my demands. Her punches made me feel weird. My arm is still sore, and I realize I’ll have to tell her she can’t punch me anymore.

I demand to not be punched anymore. Even in jest.

I wake up to my phone ringing in my pocket. It’s Dad. I ignore it. I check the time and realize that Hannah and I are late for work. I feel bad for Beth. We should have at least called her to let her know… we were being kidnapped.

Which makes no sense.

“Welcome to North Carolina, circus boy,” Hannah says. “You sleep like a dead guy. Who was that?”

“My dad.”

“I turned mine off hours ago.”

“Can we stop for coffee? Or something to eat?”

“You like crab?”

I nod. “Yeah.”

“Then according to the billboards, we’re about to find heaven.”

I reach to her large cup of leftover coffee and swirl it around to see if there’s anything left.

“It’s cold,” she says as I drink it back like a shot.

“And textured,” I say. “Shit.”

“Yeah.”

“Woke me up, though,” I say. I adjust the seat up and take a deep breath.

“Maybe they reported us missing and we’re famous,” she says.

“Been there. Sucks. Trust me.”

The 2-4-1 Crab Shack is really a shack. We can get two-for-one crab legs all day long if we want. No limit. That’s what the guy in the apron behind the counter says. No limit.

We get some. Hannah orders hush puppies, too, claiming that my life will change when I eat my first hush puppy. I pretend to like it more than I do, just to make her happy, because she’s sitting here watching me eat it and yeah, it’s okay. Really good. But it didn’t change my life. Welcome to the life of the Crapper.

“Can I ask you a favor?” I ask. She nods while eating another hush puppy. “I know you think it’s fine and cool or whatever, but could you stop hitting me?” I rub my arm to show her what I mean.

“Aw, come on. Have a sense of humor,” she says.

I demand not to be told to have a sense of humor.

I look at her seriously. “Look,” I say. “Tasha hit me all the time. Then I started hitting other shit, right? Does that make sense?”

“I guess.”

“So hitting is out. I know you mean it to be funny and it is, but it reminds me of what I had to put up with and I just don’t like it, okay?”