Reality Boy

A fresh cannoli was one of the nicest things I’d ever eaten. It was almost better than ice cream.

Nanny came in at the end of my day and gave me a big, bony hug.

“You had a fantastic day, didn’t you, Gerald?”

I nodded because I wanted to nod.

“What was your favorite part?” she asked.

I pretended to think about it awhile, but I knew the answer already. “Playing ball with Dad. And the dessert Dad brought home.”

Nanny looked at Dad and smiled. From the way she flipped her hair, it almost seemed like she was flirting with him. “Isn’t that the best feeling in the whole world?”

Dad nodded, even though he could see from Mom’s face that she wasn’t feeling very good about my answer. Or about Naughty Nanny’s hair-flipping.

When I was on my way upstairs for the night—to change into my pajamas and pick two stories—Tasha came bounding down the steps. She pushed me hard and I fell down the stairs backward. When I landed at the bottom of the stairs headfirst, I cried, but not out of pain as much as out of fear. No one came to me but Nanny. The rest of the family just stood in the hall, staring. Nanny checked my head and said it wasn’t bleeding. I told her Tasha had pushed me.

“I caught him trying to take a dump at the top of the landing,” Tasha said.

None of them believed her. Not even Mom. I could see it. So Tasha started that high-pitched wailing she did, and she latched on to Mom’s side and begged, “Please believe me! Why would I lie? Please believe me!”

Mom switched sides and muttered something about how I was impossible. The rest of us knew the truth. My pants weren’t even unzipped.

“Go upstay-yas and get those jams on, Gerald,” Nanny said after inspecting my head again. “Who do you want to read you stories tonight?”

“Lisi and Daddy,” I said.

“Very well,” she said. “You and Lisi brush those teeth and do your bathroom business, and Daddy’ll be up in a minute.”

I nodded, but once I had my pajamas on and Lisi was in the bathroom, I sneaked halfway down the stairs and listened.

Mom was crying.

“I’d never push Gerald down the steps on purpose. I love that kid,” Tasha said.

Nanny had her stern voice on. “I do not believe Gerald was trying to defecate at the top of the stairs, Tasha. He’d just had a brilliant day, and I can’t see why he’d do that. Can you?”

Tasha answered, “He’s retarded, right? Isn’t that the answer to everything?”

This was the first time I’d heard it.

28

I DON’T THINK life can be boring at Register #1 Girl’s house. Boring to me always spelled middle-class venetian-blind window treatments, perfectly mowed lawns, and white picket fences. Her house is not any of these things.

As we drive down the quarter-mile driveway, I can feel her cringing. She told me I could drop her at the mailbox, but I wouldn’t do it. She insisted, but I refused. When you take a girl home, you take her to her door and make sure she gets in safely. That’s what you do.

I’ve never done this before, but I still know that’s what you $%#*ing do.

But now she’s wincing as we drive through a tunnel of junk that started about ten yards back. Mostly scrapped cars and tractors. Some farm equipment. And then a bunch of stuff I can’t ID in the dark. Cardboard boxes that have been outside so long they’ve melted into each other, plastic children’s toys that used to belong to Register #1 Girl, I’ll bet—a seesaw and a faded-pink pretend car.

Things are organized, though. It’s not like those hoarder reality TV shows kids talk about at school. It’s—a job site. It’s a business. To my left, there’s a barn and there’s something spelled out on it in hubcaps. There is some sort of order to the cars and how they’re parked and where.

“What does your dad do?” I ask.

“Isn’t it obvious? He’s a—a—” she says.

“He sells scrap metal? And parts?” I try.

“Yeah. That. Whatever. He’s a freak.”

We reach the house, which is a modified ranch house with nice flower beds and no junk around the front, and she gets out of the car before I can say anything, so I call her back.

“Hey!”

She stops and comes to the driver’s-side door.

“If I was going to run off to the circus with anyone, I’d pick you,” I say.

She smiles. “We totally should have done it. Just for something to do.”

“Maybe next time,” I say.

“You working the hockey game?” she asks.

“Yeah.”

“See you then,” she says. She flops her arm in a halfhearted wave and then goes toward the back-door carport, which is a tunnel of small machinery. A band saw. A lawn mower. As I watch her go through the back door, I realize that I just spent the evening with the girl of my dreams. It’s like having a winning lottery ticket in my hand and having to climb $%#*ing Mount Everest to pick up the prize.

But I have the ticket.

I have the ticket.

Except seriously, Crapper. There is no way in hell you’re ever winning that lottery.

At the end of the driveway, I pull out my phone. Another message from Dad. I don’t want to call the police. Mom’s worried. Let us know you’re okay. And a text from Joe Jr. You have no idea how good you have it, Gerald.

As I drive back to the house, I think about this. About how lucky I have it. Sure, Joe Jr. doesn’t know I’m the Crapper, so he thinks my life is roses and rainbows. He doesn’t know about the infestation in my basement or the fact that I will never get anywhere if the starting line is SPED class, where I don’t even belong.

My phone buzzes. And your girl is cute.

Somehow this fact—that he thinks she’s my girl and that she’s cute—makes it okay to go home and face the planking gerbils.

Is this all it would have taken for me not to have been the world’s biggest ass**le for the last four years? A girl? I don’t know. I don’t think Register #1 Girl is just any girl. She smells nice. She’s beautiful because she doesn’t try to be beautiful. She has that little book. She is at one with the fish in the tanks—like me. We are both looking out into a distorted world and we are stuck, maybe. Stuck between feeling safe in the tank and feeling confined.

And she likes me, no matter how impossible that may seem.

Roger would say I’m just thinking about myself again.

Somehow, tonight, I don’t think there’s anything so wrong with that.

sh cannoli was one of the nicest things I’d ever eaten. It was almost better than ice cream.

Nanny came in at the end of my day and gave me a big, bony hug.

“You had a fantastic day, didn’t you, Gerald?”

I nodded because I wanted to nod.

“What was your favorite part?” she asked.

I pretended to think about it awhile, but I knew the answer already. “Playing ball with Dad. And the dessert Dad brought home.”

Nanny looked at Dad and smiled. From the way she flipped her hair, it almost seemed like she was flirting with him. “Isn’t that the best feeling in the whole world?”

Dad nodded, even though he could see from Mom’s face that she wasn’t feeling very good about my answer. Or about Naughty Nanny’s hair-flipping.

When I was on my way upstairs for the night—to change into my pajamas and pick two stories—Tasha came bounding down the steps. She pushed me hard and I fell down the stairs backward. When I landed at the bottom of the stairs headfirst, I cried, but not out of pain as much as out of fear. No one came to me but Nanny. The rest of the family just stood in the hall, staring. Nanny checked my head and said it wasn’t bleeding. I told her Tasha had pushed me.

“I caught him trying to take a dump at the top of the landing,” Tasha said.

None of them believed her. Not even Mom. I could see it. So Tasha started that high-pitched wailing she did, and she latched on to Mom’s side and begged, “Please believe me! Why would I lie? Please believe me!”

Mom switched sides and muttered something about how I was impossible. The rest of us knew the truth. My pants weren’t even unzipped.

“Go upstay-yas and get those jams on, Gerald,” Nanny said after inspecting my head again. “Who do you want to read you stories tonight?”

“Lisi and Daddy,” I said.

“Very well,” she said. “You and Lisi brush those teeth and do your bathroom business, and Daddy’ll be up in a minute.”

I nodded, but once I had my pajamas on and Lisi was in the bathroom, I sneaked halfway down the stairs and listened.

Mom was crying.

“I’d never push Gerald down the steps on purpose. I love that kid,” Tasha said.

Nanny had her stern voice on. “I do not believe Gerald was trying to defecate at the top of the stairs, Tasha. He’d just had a brilliant day, and I can’t see why he’d do that. Can you?”

Tasha answered, “He’s retarded, right? Isn’t that the answer to everything?”

This was the first time I’d heard it.

28

I DON’T THINK life can be boring at Register #1 Girl’s house. Boring to me always spelled middle-class venetian-blind window treatments, perfectly mowed lawns, and white picket fences. Her house is not any of these things.

As we drive down the quarter-mile driveway, I can feel her cringing. She told me I could drop her at the mailbox, but I wouldn’t do it. She insisted, but I refused. When you take a girl home, you take her to her door and make sure she gets in safely. That’s what you do.

I’ve never done this before, but I still know that’s what you $%#*ing do.

But now she’s wincing as we drive through a tunnel of junk that started about ten yards back. Mostly scrapped cars and tractors. Some farm equipment. And then a bunch of stuff I can’t ID in the dark. Cardboard boxes that have been outside so long they’ve melted into each other, plastic children’s toys that used to belong to Register #1 Girl, I’ll bet—a seesaw and a faded-pink pretend car.

Things are organized, though. It’s not like those hoarder reality TV shows kids talk about at school. It’s—a job site. It’s a business. To my left, there’s a barn and there’s something spelled out on it in hubcaps. There is some sort of order to the cars and how they’re parked and where.

“What does your dad do?” I ask.

“Isn’t it obvious? He’s a—a—” she says.

“He sells scrap metal? And parts?” I try.

“Yeah. That. Whatever. He’s a freak.”

We reach the house, which is a modified ranch house with nice flower beds and no junk around the front, and she gets out of the car before I can say anything, so I call her back.

“Hey!”

She stops and comes to the driver’s-side door.

“If I was going to run off to the circus with anyone, I’d pick you,” I say.

She smiles. “We totally should have done it. Just for something to do.”

“Maybe next time,” I say.

“You working the hockey game?” she asks.

“Yeah.”

“See you then,” she says. She flops her arm in a halfhearted wave and then goes toward the back-door carport, which is a tunnel of small machinery. A band saw. A lawn mower. As I watch her go through the back door, I realize that I just spent the evening with the girl of my dreams. It’s like having a winning lottery ticket in my hand and having to climb $%#*ing Mount Everest to pick up the prize.

But I have the ticket.

I have the ticket.

Except seriously, Crapper. There is no way in hell you’re ever winning that lottery.

At the end of the driveway, I pull out my phone. Another message from Dad. I don’t want to call the police. Mom’s worried. Let us know you’re okay. And a text from Joe Jr. You have no idea how good you have it, Gerald.

As I drive back to the house, I think about this. About how lucky I have it. Sure, Joe Jr. doesn’t know I’m the Crapper, so he thinks my life is roses and rainbows. He doesn’t know about the infestation in my basement or the fact that I will never get anywhere if the starting line is SPED class, where I don’t even belong.

My phone buzzes. And your girl is cute.

Somehow this fact—that he thinks she’s my girl and that she’s cute—makes it okay to go home and face the planking gerbils.

Is this all it would have taken for me not to have been the world’s biggest ass**le for the last four years? A girl? I don’t know. I don’t think Register #1 Girl is just any girl. She smells nice. She’s beautiful because she doesn’t try to be beautiful. She has that little book. She is at one with the fish in the tanks—like me. We are both looking out into a distorted world and we are stuck, maybe. Stuck between feeling safe in the tank and feeling confined.

And she likes me, no matter how impossible that may seem.

Roger would say I’m just thinking about myself again.

Somehow, tonight, I don’t think there’s anything so wrong with that.