“Did you really punch her?”
That episode was widely publicized. “Yes,” I say. “And I’d do it again, too.”
“I’ve seen it on YouTube. The punch scene. Man, it’s funny,” she says. “Like, six million views so far.”
I shrug.
She says, “For a six-year-old kid, you had a hell of a right hook.”
“This is breaking rule number three,” I say.
“Oh, come on. Have a sense of humor,” she says.
I give her a stern look and feel my face go hot with anger. And there it goes, ass**le. Didn’t even last twenty-four hours. Told you so.
37
AFTER SCHOOL, HANNAH finds me at my locker and asks for a ride home. I’m still mad at her about saying that thing after lunch. Have a sense of humor. Just thinking about it makes my face heat up again.
“Sure,” I say. I don’t say anything else.
When we get outside, it’s colder than it was this morning and I’m suddenly freezing without a coat on. As I wait for the heater to come on, Hannah sits in the passenger’s seat, reading texts on her phone. I open my phone and check my texts, too. There’s one from Lisi, which is a first. What do u want 4 ur bday? Shld I just get u a gift card?
And one from Joe Jr. We leave today for SC. Then FL. Dentist clown still not funny.
I text Joe Jr. back: See you soon. Send me your FL address.
Then I text Lisi back. Send shovel for bd. Digging tunnel to Scotland.
That’s the best I can do for Lisi. Joking. I know she knows I miss her. I don’t think she knows how much I need her, though. I know it’s selfish, but sometimes I don’t know how it was so easy for her to leave me here with these people. How could she do that and then not even call me?
I ask Hannah, “What’s your number?”
She tells me and smiles at me when she says the numbers and I feel my anger subside. Maybe I do need a sense of humor. I add her number to my contacts and I write her a text. Just because I made rule #5 doesn’t mean I don’t want to.
Her phone jingles and she reads it and adds me to her contacts and then texts back. I know.
“So, you remember how to get to my house?” she asks me once we’re free of the school parking lot.
“Yep.”
“Not an easy place to forget, I guess,” she says. “Nor is the fact that you are now dating the junkman’s daughter.”
“You aren’t the junkman’s daughter,” I say.
“I know who I am. You don’t have to break it to me, you know. I’ve lived there my whole life,” she says. “It’s a huge pain in the ass.”
I nod.
She adds, “Do you know how many parents send their girls to the junkman’s daughter’s house for a sleepover party? None. Do you know how many parents send their kids over to play? Yeah. None. And how many come trick-or-treating? That would be… none.”
“Trick-or-treaters are a pain in the ass, anyway,” I say.
She nods her head and asks if I want to hear her punk rock song about being a junkman’s daughter and then she sings it to me without my saying yes. I’m not sure it can qualify as a song because all it is, is yelling and some screaming in the middle and then more yelling and a lot of swearing in the middle and then a big scream—like a death scream—at the end.
“Very cool,” I say.
“You should hear it with a guitar. It’s way better,” she answers.
“You play guitar?”
She fiddles with her hair. “Uh, no. Uh—my ex did.”
“Oh.”
“Sorry.”
“It’s cool,” I say. “It’s not like neither of us had lives before now.”
Although when I say that, I realize that I haven’t had a life before now. Well, I guess I did have a life but—uh—Have a sense of humor, Gerald.
Once we’re on the road Hannah asks me, “Are you sure you don’t want to stop at the baseball park and make out?”
“I really don’t think we should break a rule on the day we made it,” I say. “That would just kill the viability of all future rules.” Truth: I can’t imagine the pain of making out right now. My chest feels like it’s going to collapse and I can’t wait to get home to Mom’s medicine cabinet. I plan on hitting her prescriptions for this pain.
“Do you want to park and just talk?” she asks. “Because I don’t feel like going home yet. My to-do list is way too long today. I’ll be up all night, I bet.”
“Really?” I ask as I pull into the baseball field’s parking lot. “I forget regular classes get so much homework.”
“I already did my homework,” she says. “The to-do list is the usual Tuesday-night bullshit. Wash, mostly. Then dinner. Then dishes. Then folding wash, some leftover review homework, then cleaning. Then bed. Before midnight if I’m lucky.”
“You do your own wash?” The idea of it makes me feel babied. My mom still washes everything of mine. She folds my boxer shorts into perfect little squares.
“I do everybody’s wash,” she says. Then she laughs. “Fuck. I do everybody’s everything. I’m a full-service junkman’s daughter.”
I smile at her while feeling like a mama’s boy for the boxer-shorts squares.
“Except the junk,” she says. “I don’t sell junk, deal in junk, stack junk, buy junk, or have any f**king thing to do with junk. But everything else, I do.”
“Huh.” I think back to Nanny’s 1-2-3 lectures about responsibility and how chores make you independent, but this seems excessive. “Why?” I ask.
“They’re too busy watching TV and waiting for the phone call that never comes about my brother being dead.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah,” she says.
A minute slips by. “Is that why you see a shrink?”
She shrugs. “Nah. My mom thinks the shrink will help me be—uh—less weird.”
“You’re not weird.”
“We’re both weird,” she corrects. “What you mean is, There’s nothing wrong with being different.”
“Totally.”
“Yeah, my shrink doesn’t buy it. She’s, like, the Martha Stewart of shrinks or something. She’ll have me dressed right and scrapbooking in no time.”
I laugh. “No scrapbooking. We should make a rule about that,” I say. “And don’t listen to your shrink. You’re perfect just like this.” I look at her for a second too long and she gets self-conscious and looks at her lap.
That episode was widely publicized. “Yes,” I say. “And I’d do it again, too.”
“I’ve seen it on YouTube. The punch scene. Man, it’s funny,” she says. “Like, six million views so far.”
I shrug.
She says, “For a six-year-old kid, you had a hell of a right hook.”
“This is breaking rule number three,” I say.
“Oh, come on. Have a sense of humor,” she says.
I give her a stern look and feel my face go hot with anger. And there it goes, ass**le. Didn’t even last twenty-four hours. Told you so.
37
AFTER SCHOOL, HANNAH finds me at my locker and asks for a ride home. I’m still mad at her about saying that thing after lunch. Have a sense of humor. Just thinking about it makes my face heat up again.
“Sure,” I say. I don’t say anything else.
When we get outside, it’s colder than it was this morning and I’m suddenly freezing without a coat on. As I wait for the heater to come on, Hannah sits in the passenger’s seat, reading texts on her phone. I open my phone and check my texts, too. There’s one from Lisi, which is a first. What do u want 4 ur bday? Shld I just get u a gift card?
And one from Joe Jr. We leave today for SC. Then FL. Dentist clown still not funny.
I text Joe Jr. back: See you soon. Send me your FL address.
Then I text Lisi back. Send shovel for bd. Digging tunnel to Scotland.
That’s the best I can do for Lisi. Joking. I know she knows I miss her. I don’t think she knows how much I need her, though. I know it’s selfish, but sometimes I don’t know how it was so easy for her to leave me here with these people. How could she do that and then not even call me?
I ask Hannah, “What’s your number?”
She tells me and smiles at me when she says the numbers and I feel my anger subside. Maybe I do need a sense of humor. I add her number to my contacts and I write her a text. Just because I made rule #5 doesn’t mean I don’t want to.
Her phone jingles and she reads it and adds me to her contacts and then texts back. I know.
“So, you remember how to get to my house?” she asks me once we’re free of the school parking lot.
“Yep.”
“Not an easy place to forget, I guess,” she says. “Nor is the fact that you are now dating the junkman’s daughter.”
“You aren’t the junkman’s daughter,” I say.
“I know who I am. You don’t have to break it to me, you know. I’ve lived there my whole life,” she says. “It’s a huge pain in the ass.”
I nod.
She adds, “Do you know how many parents send their girls to the junkman’s daughter’s house for a sleepover party? None. Do you know how many parents send their kids over to play? Yeah. None. And how many come trick-or-treating? That would be… none.”
“Trick-or-treaters are a pain in the ass, anyway,” I say.
She nods her head and asks if I want to hear her punk rock song about being a junkman’s daughter and then she sings it to me without my saying yes. I’m not sure it can qualify as a song because all it is, is yelling and some screaming in the middle and then more yelling and a lot of swearing in the middle and then a big scream—like a death scream—at the end.
“Very cool,” I say.
“You should hear it with a guitar. It’s way better,” she answers.
“You play guitar?”
She fiddles with her hair. “Uh, no. Uh—my ex did.”
“Oh.”
“Sorry.”
“It’s cool,” I say. “It’s not like neither of us had lives before now.”
Although when I say that, I realize that I haven’t had a life before now. Well, I guess I did have a life but—uh—Have a sense of humor, Gerald.
Once we’re on the road Hannah asks me, “Are you sure you don’t want to stop at the baseball park and make out?”
“I really don’t think we should break a rule on the day we made it,” I say. “That would just kill the viability of all future rules.” Truth: I can’t imagine the pain of making out right now. My chest feels like it’s going to collapse and I can’t wait to get home to Mom’s medicine cabinet. I plan on hitting her prescriptions for this pain.
“Do you want to park and just talk?” she asks. “Because I don’t feel like going home yet. My to-do list is way too long today. I’ll be up all night, I bet.”
“Really?” I ask as I pull into the baseball field’s parking lot. “I forget regular classes get so much homework.”
“I already did my homework,” she says. “The to-do list is the usual Tuesday-night bullshit. Wash, mostly. Then dinner. Then dishes. Then folding wash, some leftover review homework, then cleaning. Then bed. Before midnight if I’m lucky.”
“You do your own wash?” The idea of it makes me feel babied. My mom still washes everything of mine. She folds my boxer shorts into perfect little squares.
“I do everybody’s wash,” she says. Then she laughs. “Fuck. I do everybody’s everything. I’m a full-service junkman’s daughter.”
I smile at her while feeling like a mama’s boy for the boxer-shorts squares.
“Except the junk,” she says. “I don’t sell junk, deal in junk, stack junk, buy junk, or have any f**king thing to do with junk. But everything else, I do.”
“Huh.” I think back to Nanny’s 1-2-3 lectures about responsibility and how chores make you independent, but this seems excessive. “Why?” I ask.
“They’re too busy watching TV and waiting for the phone call that never comes about my brother being dead.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah,” she says.
A minute slips by. “Is that why you see a shrink?”
She shrugs. “Nah. My mom thinks the shrink will help me be—uh—less weird.”
“You’re not weird.”
“We’re both weird,” she corrects. “What you mean is, There’s nothing wrong with being different.”
“Totally.”
“Yeah, my shrink doesn’t buy it. She’s, like, the Martha Stewart of shrinks or something. She’ll have me dressed right and scrapbooking in no time.”
I laugh. “No scrapbooking. We should make a rule about that,” I say. “And don’t listen to your shrink. You’re perfect just like this.” I look at her for a second too long and she gets self-conscious and looks at her lap.
