Reality Boy

I went to an anger management coach for a while and we used to write you letters, but none of them were really about what I wanted to say to you. They were about what he thought I should write. Mostly about my anger. I had a lot of anger. I know you know that because I had it long before you ever got to my house with all your crew and cameras and chore charts, but I was angrier after you came.

My sister Tasha did horrible things to my sister and me. She tried to kill us a lot. I think you knew. I’m not sure why you didn’t report it or do more about it, but I know it’s on your conscience, not mine. Lisi is okay. She lives in Scotland now. I am also okay.

I hope you remember how fun I could be. I was playing with a five-year-old last night and I remembered being five and how much fun it is because when no one is chasing you trying to hurt you, the world is pretty much a land of fun. I was fun, only they edited that part of me out of the show.

I met a woman last month who recognized me and she hugged me and said she wished she could have taken me from my house and taken care of me back when your show aired. I told her that I wished she would have, but that I’m okay now.

That’s why I’m writing to you. I’m old enough to get away from all those people in my town who believed what you showed them and were too shallow to see any deeper. Why do you think they do that, Nanny? Do you think they liked watching me suffer because it made them happy to see a little boy suffering? Do you think it’s because it took attention away from their own suffering? Do you think that they were just dumb and loved schadenfreude?

Because we were suffering.

Lisi and I told you.

You asked and we told you.

And even though you knew and didn’t do anything to help me, I’m okay. And I want you to know that I hope you’re okay, too.

Sincerely,

Gerald Faust

Hannah called her mother while I was writing. She went outside and paced while she talked. Her mom asked her aunt to find them some help, including help for Hannah’s mother’s increasing mental issues. The aunt went to a few places and thinks she’ll be able to find some solutions. Anyway, Hannah’s mom isn’t sending her a hundred crazy texts a day anymore.

I call my dad in front of Hannah. This is what she hears.

ME: Yeah.

ME: Okay.

ME: Huh. Okay.

ME: I guess.

ME: Yeah, I’d do that.

ME: Are you? Does it make you happy?

ME: She probably just didn’t want to get involved in the drama. She’ll talk to you again. Don’t worry.

ME: What day is it again?

ME: I guess by Thursday if we leave today.

ME: Thanks.

When I hang up, she stands there waiting for the story, but instead of telling her, I hug her and say, “I told Joe I’d meet him in the barn. I’ll be back in an hour.”

“But are we leaving? Today? Didn’t you just say that?”

“If you want to, then yes. If you don’t, then no. We can do what we want.”

“YOU JUST JUMP,” Joe Jr. says. “And hold on to the bar.”

He’s sitting in a chair on the edge of the makeshift ring. Thirty feet below me.

I’m standing on the tiny platform with the bar in my hands. My sweaty hands. I hook the bar to the hook at the side and I cover my hands in chalk for the fifth time.

“Come on,” he says. “There’s a net. Nothing to be worried about.”

I close my eyes and see Lisi on the other side. I promise myself ice cream if I do this. Any flavor I want. All I have to do is jump. My hands get too sweaty again, so I hook the bar up and rechalk. This happens at least four more times.

Joe Jr. starts to play on his phone and has stopped encouraging me. He looks so small down there, in his tiny chair. His phone is the size of an ant. He is the size of a large spider. The net is so far away.

I look at my hands. Very chalky, but not shaking.

I look at the other platform—across the rigging. Snow White is sitting there with her bluebird. She also looks small, but not as small as Joe Jr. or his phone. She is superimposed—unreal. Not really there. She’s just a projection.

I sit down on the platform and think.

I have a conversation in my head. It’s about never having to see Tasha again because I demand that.

I demand to never see Tasha again.

Tasha has a screw loose and no one knew what to do about it, so they hid it, fed it, and then ended up a slave to it.

I feel bad. For me and Lisi. For Dad. For Mom, even. Maybe even a little bit for Tasha, who has the loose screw. I feel bad for everyone involved.

And now the conversation in my head is about Hannah. About how having her in my life changes everything. Before Hannah, no one would ever love me. I was too angry. Too violent. My past was too f**ked up. My future held no hope.

No one ever said it. But they meant to. I look forward to your letters from prison.

But Hannah changes everything.

I stare down at the net and then at Joe Jr., who looks up periodically to see if I’m standing again. Then he goes back to his phone. I look back at the projection of Snow White, and all that’s left is her bluebird. If the bluebird could talk, it would tell me what it sees. Chickenshit.

I stand up, chalk my hands one last time, and grab the bar—and then I jump. All in one motion. One split second. Just like how I ran away. Rash decision. Hasty action. Off the top of my head. Not Prescribed by a Medical Professional. I just get up, hang on, and jump.

My first swing is when I realize those girls in the Monaco video must be stronger than Clydesdales. I can barely make the rig swing. In fact, I have no momentum at all. I try, but I look like I’m having some sort of fit. In mere seconds, I am a straight, rigid seventeen-year-old hanging still from the end of a trapeze bar in the middle of a circus barn in Florida.

It’s kind of fun, except my shoulders are about to separate.

Joe Jr. laughs. “You did it! You $%#*ing pu**y! You did it!”

This makes me laugh a little, but laughing makes me weak, so I stop. Then I realize I’m hanging twenty-five feet above the ground.

I demand to trust the net.

But I don’t trust the net.

My chalky hands have a firm grip on the bar. In fact, they feel like they are the bar. My hands have become the bar. And that’s fine because I’m not letting go.

“You ever coming down?” Joe Jr. asks. I bet he’s done this a hundred times before. No big deal to Joe—just dropping into a net that barely seems there.

“No,” I say. “I think I’ll stay here forever.”

t to an anger management coach for a while and we used to write you letters, but none of them were really about what I wanted to say to you. They were about what he thought I should write. Mostly about my anger. I had a lot of anger. I know you know that because I had it long before you ever got to my house with all your crew and cameras and chore charts, but I was angrier after you came.