“Now we’re soul mates?” I don’t know why I’m being so sarcastic. But I am. And I’m hurting her. And I can’t stop. Because you’re an ass**le.
“Actually, I thought that as far back as three weeks ago.”
“Three weeks ago we weren’t even talking to each other,” I say.
She pulls out her little notebook. “I can prove it. Want me to read you that part?”
“No,” I say. “I believe you.”
“So you’re not mad?”
I sigh. I’m mad. Zip code 00000. But not at her. “I was just having a nice birthday and I didn’t want to scare you. I was just playing around. I’d never have hit that guy.” ←That is a complete lie.
“I’ll read it to you,” she says. “It’s right here. Three weeks ago to the day.”
I put my hand up. “Don’t do it. That breaks rule number—what’s the no-reading-the-book rule? Why didn’t we number that rule?”
“Because it’s a sacred rule.”
“So then you can’t read it to me. Put it back in your pocket.”
Neither of us talks for a while, but she puts her hand on my leg again—near the knee—and it stirs me again, too.
I say, “Soul mates, huh?”
She says, “Yep.”
I smile.
If she is my soul mate, then I have just saved myself years of searching. But I can’t tell if she is or not, because I am wrapped in a lifetime of polyethylene lie-wrapping that denies me any possibility of knowing the truth.
We pull up to her driveway. She says, “You write your list of demands yet?”
“I tried to start,” I say. “Big fail. Nothing I demanded made any sense.”
“So? Do it anyway. If I was you, I’d have a long-ass list by now.”
“I guess I’m not really good at demanding.”
She gets out of the car.
“Thanks for the card,” I say. “I thought it was funny that you said I give a shit. You know, because that’s my life—giving people shits. Only those people never really appreciated it.” I laugh. “But no. Seriously. Thanks for the card. It’s sweet.”
“You’re welcome. And don’t forget to listen to the CD.”
“I won’t. And that thing—the love shit,” I say.
“The love shit? That’s romantic.”
“I mean, let’s just keep going slow, okay? This shit scares me.”
When I get home, I go to the kitchen table and find my birthday present and a note. Sorry we missed you!
It’s a gas card for three hundred dollars. I hear the loud TV downstairs in the basement and think about packing right now and going wherever three hundred dollars will take me.
Once I get to my room, I watch the amazing Monaco trapeze act twice before I go to bed. I count the spins and the somersaults. The performers are like birds. They have probably been forced to practice trapeze from the minute they were born, twenty-two hours a day, seven days a week, but they look free. At least, in the air they look free.
46
EPISODE 3, SCENE 2, TAKE 2
EPISODE THREE WASN’T a full episode. It was one of those let’s-look-back-on-our-past-families-and-see-how-well-we-did episodes, and I couldn’t have the world thinking that anyone in my house had done well.
No one had done well.
Mom still treated Tasha like a princess even though Tasha hit her all the time and had invented the pillow trick to scare Lisi and me worse. The pillow trick was when she’d take a couch pillow and put it over my face until I would start to kick and scream and nearly lose consciousness. Then she’d remove it and I’d be in Gersday, lying there with her invisible and Lisi by my side, looking concerned. Then Tasha would run to Mom and tell her that I’d done something bad, and Mom would come in and scold me while I was mute, staring into space and eating ice cream with my favorite cartoon character or something.
Dad stayed away more. If that was even possible. The market was good then. Houses were flying. I overheard talk of storing money away like squirrels hiding nuts. He mentioned moving because so many people knew us now. Reality TV stars. Photographers would come to the end of the driveway and snap pictures. Articles would appear in the local paper. People would write letters to the editor. I was six, so I didn’t know that then. I’ve since read some of those letters. Many were cruel. Some weren’t. I’m pretty sure one was written by my hockey-lady/ketchup-coated dream mother.
Lisi was not okay. She feared for our lives. The pillow trick was avoidable, she reckoned, by staying in her room all the time, where Tasha couldn’t get her. She read every book she owned a hundred times. She wrote things in a little locked diary and worked ahead in her textbooks.
Mom was not okay. Her eyes were empty. Translucent. She’d started walking for hours at a time. She even applied for jobs, but no one would hire her, since she didn’t know how to do anything except f**k up her family. No one said that part. That part was mine.
When Nanny Lainie Church/Elizabeth Harriet Smallpiece and the crew arrived on the first day, they walked in as if they owned us. Nanny didn’t even bother wearing her Nanny costume. She was dressed in a dress that showed her every curve and her ample cle**age. The crew didn’t mount any secret cameras on the walls. This was going to be a three-day-long visit, once and done, they said—just a way to reestablish the rules and make sure the family was doing okay.
The first scene with us kids in it was scene two. We were all washed and dressed and sitting at the kitchen table with Mom and Dad at the head seats and Nanny next to me, with Tasha and Lisi across from me and Nanny. All I could see was my invisible turds there in the middle of the table. It got me to thinking about the days when I put them there. Back when I was five, which seemed like a lifetime ago.
I felt older than seven.
What other seven-year-old could claim he’d escaped being murdered by his own sister at least a dozen times? What other seven-year-old could claim that when he went to school, he was seen as part movie star and part maniac? I couldn’t understand if those kids in first grade had actually seen the show or if their parents had distilled it for them. I’m guessing both. Parents let their kids watch all sorts of shit they shouldn’t watch.
“Nice to see you all again,” Nanny started. “I’m very excited to hear of your proh-gress.” Nanny said progress with the long o sound. I’d grown to love her accent even though I wanted to slap it right out of her mouth for her being so naïve as to think there had been any proh-gress.
“Actually, I thought that as far back as three weeks ago.”
“Three weeks ago we weren’t even talking to each other,” I say.
She pulls out her little notebook. “I can prove it. Want me to read you that part?”
“No,” I say. “I believe you.”
“So you’re not mad?”
I sigh. I’m mad. Zip code 00000. But not at her. “I was just having a nice birthday and I didn’t want to scare you. I was just playing around. I’d never have hit that guy.” ←That is a complete lie.
“I’ll read it to you,” she says. “It’s right here. Three weeks ago to the day.”
I put my hand up. “Don’t do it. That breaks rule number—what’s the no-reading-the-book rule? Why didn’t we number that rule?”
“Because it’s a sacred rule.”
“So then you can’t read it to me. Put it back in your pocket.”
Neither of us talks for a while, but she puts her hand on my leg again—near the knee—and it stirs me again, too.
I say, “Soul mates, huh?”
She says, “Yep.”
I smile.
If she is my soul mate, then I have just saved myself years of searching. But I can’t tell if she is or not, because I am wrapped in a lifetime of polyethylene lie-wrapping that denies me any possibility of knowing the truth.
We pull up to her driveway. She says, “You write your list of demands yet?”
“I tried to start,” I say. “Big fail. Nothing I demanded made any sense.”
“So? Do it anyway. If I was you, I’d have a long-ass list by now.”
“I guess I’m not really good at demanding.”
She gets out of the car.
“Thanks for the card,” I say. “I thought it was funny that you said I give a shit. You know, because that’s my life—giving people shits. Only those people never really appreciated it.” I laugh. “But no. Seriously. Thanks for the card. It’s sweet.”
“You’re welcome. And don’t forget to listen to the CD.”
“I won’t. And that thing—the love shit,” I say.
“The love shit? That’s romantic.”
“I mean, let’s just keep going slow, okay? This shit scares me.”
When I get home, I go to the kitchen table and find my birthday present and a note. Sorry we missed you!
It’s a gas card for three hundred dollars. I hear the loud TV downstairs in the basement and think about packing right now and going wherever three hundred dollars will take me.
Once I get to my room, I watch the amazing Monaco trapeze act twice before I go to bed. I count the spins and the somersaults. The performers are like birds. They have probably been forced to practice trapeze from the minute they were born, twenty-two hours a day, seven days a week, but they look free. At least, in the air they look free.
46
EPISODE 3, SCENE 2, TAKE 2
EPISODE THREE WASN’T a full episode. It was one of those let’s-look-back-on-our-past-families-and-see-how-well-we-did episodes, and I couldn’t have the world thinking that anyone in my house had done well.
No one had done well.
Mom still treated Tasha like a princess even though Tasha hit her all the time and had invented the pillow trick to scare Lisi and me worse. The pillow trick was when she’d take a couch pillow and put it over my face until I would start to kick and scream and nearly lose consciousness. Then she’d remove it and I’d be in Gersday, lying there with her invisible and Lisi by my side, looking concerned. Then Tasha would run to Mom and tell her that I’d done something bad, and Mom would come in and scold me while I was mute, staring into space and eating ice cream with my favorite cartoon character or something.
Dad stayed away more. If that was even possible. The market was good then. Houses were flying. I overheard talk of storing money away like squirrels hiding nuts. He mentioned moving because so many people knew us now. Reality TV stars. Photographers would come to the end of the driveway and snap pictures. Articles would appear in the local paper. People would write letters to the editor. I was six, so I didn’t know that then. I’ve since read some of those letters. Many were cruel. Some weren’t. I’m pretty sure one was written by my hockey-lady/ketchup-coated dream mother.
Lisi was not okay. She feared for our lives. The pillow trick was avoidable, she reckoned, by staying in her room all the time, where Tasha couldn’t get her. She read every book she owned a hundred times. She wrote things in a little locked diary and worked ahead in her textbooks.
Mom was not okay. Her eyes were empty. Translucent. She’d started walking for hours at a time. She even applied for jobs, but no one would hire her, since she didn’t know how to do anything except f**k up her family. No one said that part. That part was mine.
When Nanny Lainie Church/Elizabeth Harriet Smallpiece and the crew arrived on the first day, they walked in as if they owned us. Nanny didn’t even bother wearing her Nanny costume. She was dressed in a dress that showed her every curve and her ample cle**age. The crew didn’t mount any secret cameras on the walls. This was going to be a three-day-long visit, once and done, they said—just a way to reestablish the rules and make sure the family was doing okay.
The first scene with us kids in it was scene two. We were all washed and dressed and sitting at the kitchen table with Mom and Dad at the head seats and Nanny next to me, with Tasha and Lisi across from me and Nanny. All I could see was my invisible turds there in the middle of the table. It got me to thinking about the days when I put them there. Back when I was five, which seemed like a lifetime ago.
I felt older than seven.
What other seven-year-old could claim he’d escaped being murdered by his own sister at least a dozen times? What other seven-year-old could claim that when he went to school, he was seen as part movie star and part maniac? I couldn’t understand if those kids in first grade had actually seen the show or if their parents had distilled it for them. I’m guessing both. Parents let their kids watch all sorts of shit they shouldn’t watch.
“Nice to see you all again,” Nanny started. “I’m very excited to hear of your proh-gress.” Nanny said progress with the long o sound. I’d grown to love her accent even though I wanted to slap it right out of her mouth for her being so naïve as to think there had been any proh-gress.
