Reality Boy

I want to talk to her about my plastic-wrapped heart and how I think she’s unwrapping it, but I think it’s stupid. Anyway, it’s more than my heart that’s wrapped. My mouth is wrapped. My brain is wrapped. That’s how it works when you grow up in the land of make-believe. To survive, you wrap and wrap and wrap until you’re safe. Gersday is full of shit. Nothing is real.

The sky is bright and blue and the clouds are huge. The sun is warm. I was cold at the 2-4-1 Crab Shack yesterday, whereas now I’m hot. I roll my window down a bit more. Hannah keeps singing what I think is Little Stevie Wonder. Something about everything being all right.

I demand that everything be all right.

My phone rings and Hannah says, “It’s your dad.”

“Shit,” I say. “Just let it ring.”

She turns down the music. “I’m starting to feel bad.”

I find a place to pull over on some empty back-country Georgia road. I kiss her—nothing slobbery like last night. Just a love-kiss on the lips to make her feel better.

“Are we really going to ever finish that list?” I ask. “I don’t want to go back. Nothing is ever going to change.”

She looks at me and smiles. “I left it at the motel. In the trash can.”

“Good,” I say.

“None of our real demands are sane enough to write down, right? I mean, how can I write please stop going crazy and using me as your house slave for everything?” she asks. “How can you make your sister not a psychopath?”

“I really only have one demand after last night.”

Hannah looks intrigued.

“I want you to be my real girlfriend.”

“Oh, that.” She seems blasé.

“I want to trust somebody. You know? I want to be trusted by somebody,” I say.

She nods.

“I want a normal life,” I say. “Does that make sense?”

She looks at the road and answers. “I want to be Nathan and Ashley. I want to have a job and a house and cookies and aquariums,” she says. “Remember, like playing house when you were little?”

I never played house when I was little. Unless you count playing people in your house want to drown you.

“I never liked aquariums until we went there,” I say. “We never had pets.”

“Fish aren’t f**king pets,” she says. “They’re, like, birds, but in water or something. Manifestations of freedom.”

“In a tank.”

“But they don’t know they’re in a tank,” she says.

“Right. But we do.”

I feel her staring at me when I say this and I smile a little. It would be nice to be a fish and not know I’m in a tank. It would be nice to share my tank with Hannah. It would be nice to grow gills so I can breathe underwater.

“Can I drive now?” she asks.

The back roads of Georgia are bumpy and sometimes they twist. Hannah handles them all at higher speeds than I would and she puts in the Gerald/Junkyard Daughter CD and cranks it and tries to give me a punk rock education, but I can’t hear her over the loud music and the bluebirds on my shoulders.

I haven’t been to Gersday all day and I don’t want to go. The bluebirds have come to fly me back, but I ignore them.

I find I like punk rock music. It’s a sort of sound track for my life. I think the screaming guitars and the yelling, incoherent singers would fit perfectly over those YouTube videos of the Network Nanny me—acting out, punching shit, crapping, and crying.

I text Joe Jr. and I lie. Dude, I’ll be in FL in a few hours. Near you. Can we visit?

I see my dad has texted me again.

Some woman called saying that you kidnapped her daughter. Just come home. We can work it out, I promise.

I read that one to Hannah. She expresses surprise that her mother had the capacity to even find Mom and Dad’s number.

“It’s unlisted,” I say. “So she must know someone.” Then I think. “Or my dad is lying. That wouldn’t be a first.”

She turns up the music again. I position myself so she’s the only thing in my view. She’s shed her leather jacket and has on a men’s white T-shirt and those same ripped-up jeans and a pair of round-toed boots. She has her sleeves rolled up because it’s hot. With the windows open, her hair is flying around and it’s wild. Her face is perfect. Cheekbones high. Eyes big. Lips full. Looking at her knocks the air out of me sometimes.

I watch her like she’s a TV. No. That’s insulting. I watch her like she’s a great work of art in a big museum. I stare and try to figure out the mystery.

The mystery: There are other beautiful girls with perfect skin and big eyes and all that shit. Why Hannah?

Why do I feel like I can’t breathe without her?

Some kid did a speech on pheromones in tenth grade. I think maybe this is why I love Hannah. She smells right or something. Not the berries, but the Hannah. The Hannah smell.

I turn down the music. “Do you believe in pheromones?”

“Isn’t that a little like believing in oxygen?”

“But do you believe that they bring people together?”

“I guess. That’s what they say, right?”

“Yeah.” I turn the music back up, but I know it’s more than that. More than science. I love Hannah. I need her the way she needs me. She’s here to save me and I’m here to save her. And somehow, the Creator of the Universe put her at register #1 and me at register #7.

56

WE STOP AT a diner right outside Marianna, Florida. I have this dumb idea in my head. I want to talk to Dad. I want to see what he’s really so willing to do. Or maybe, more accurately, I want to tell him what I’m not willing to do. I want Hannah to call her mom and make sure the police aren’t after us. I admit I got a horrible feeling in southern Georgia when I saw a police car and reminded myself of the Gerald mantra for the last three years: No jail no jail no jail.

I demand a better mantra.

Hannah is eating grits with her all-day-breakfast eggs and bacon. I am eating a BLT and potato chips.

“I want to call my dad,” I say.

“So call your dad.”

“I was waiting until I had the list,” I say. “But then we ditched the list.”

“The list was stupid. We can’t demand anything. We’re the fish in the tank, Gerald.”

“We are?”

“Yeah.”

“But we know we’re in the tank,” I argue.

“Exactly.”