Read Online Reality Boy by A. S. King - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: A. S. King
Tags: Romance, Contemporary, Young Adult, Juvenile Fiction / Family - Siblings, Juvenile Fiction / Boys & Men, Juvenile Fiction / Social Issues - Bullying, Juvenile Fiction / Social Issues - Violence
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start to run out of air, I panic. I remember I have arms. And teeth. So I grab her hand and I bite it. Hard. Like a tiger would bite a hand—the same tiger that bit Tom What’s-His-Name in eighth grade. I am not myself. I can only see me from the angle of the camera that was once mounted on the kitchen wall. My stripes are magnificent. Nothing else in the world is that shade of orange.
I watch myself wipe Tasha’s blood on Mom’s sparkling white tea towel and leave for work. Then I turn off the show.
I am eating ice cream in Gersday and driving down the highway at about 234 miles per hour. I may have run red lights. I can’t be sure. I could be driving on the wrong side of the road.
I am four. Tasha calls me gay and holds my head under the bathwater. I don’t know how to drive a car, but I like to sit in the driver’s seat and pretend.
I am six. Tasha calls me gay and holds her hand over my mouth and nose while I sleep. I love to ride the shiny, coin-operated race-car ride outside the supermarket.
I am seven. Tasha calls me gay and tries to suffocate me with a living room pillow. I am driving bumper cars at a country fair.
I am almost seventeen. Tasha says I swing the other way and puts me in the Tasha grip in the middle of the kitchen in front of our parents. I am driving through a watery black hole, never to return.
18
THE HIGHWAY IS made of ice cream. The bridges are made of waffle cones. There are smiling, waving Walt Disney characters as mile markers. Each one says, “Hello, Gerald!” I take the butter pecan exit. The road is bumpy from pecans. I bounce into the backseat, where Snow White sits with her hands on her lap and says, “Good boy, Gerald! You’ve made us all very proud.”
Snow White looks out the window and waves to her friends as we pass each one. Goofy. Pluto. Mickey. Donald. They blow kisses to her.
She says, “Would you like a regular cone or sugar?”
“Regular, please,” I answer. She hands me a chunky cherry regular cone, and I begin to eat it.
The limousine driver asks, “How’s the weather back there? Are you too hot? Too cold? I can adjust it if you want.”
“I’m fine,” I say.
Snow White says she’s cold, so he turns up the heat. “Ladies first,” the limo driver says. “You have to make them happy or else we all suffer, right, Gerald?”
“Right,” I say, but I don’t mean it. I can’t see why ladies have to come first. Not in Gersday.
When I look out the window, I see we’re driving to Disney World. There are signs that say ONLY 100 MILES TO THE MOUSE! or BE OUR GUEST! I eat my ice cream and try to ignore the stifling heat. Snow White doesn’t seem bothered. She just keeps waving to her friends.
“Gerald,” the limo driver says, “do you want to go to the circus before or after we drop Snow White at home?”
I don’t know how to answer this question.
Then Snow White hands me an inflatable hammer. It’s the same one I won at the fair when I was five. I wondered where it went. I hug it even though I am nearly seventeen and there is no reason for me to hug an inflatable hammer. Then she hands me a Ziploc bag of Game Boy games. When I look closely, I see they are all the games I ever asked for. The ones I never got. Before I can hug those, she hands me a puppy. And a hamster. And then she hands me a card that says
Happy 8th Birthday!
On the inside, she has forged Mom’s and Dad’s signatures perfectly. I realize that Snow White is a lot craftier than she seems. I’d never have pegged her as a forger. She always seemed so sweet.
Suddenly I don’t want to be in the backseat with crafty Snow White, but I’m covered in all the things she’s given me. A shoe box full of baseball cards. A pair of in-line roller skates. A little ball for my hamster to run around in. And it’s hot back here. And the puppy is thirsty—he makes that thirsty breathing noise with his tongue out. Snow White looks at me and smiles, but I don’t trust her anymore. She
I watch myself wipe Tasha’s blood on Mom’s sparkling white tea towel and leave for work. Then I turn off the show.
I am eating ice cream in Gersday and driving down the highway at about 234 miles per hour. I may have run red lights. I can’t be sure. I could be driving on the wrong side of the road.
I am four. Tasha calls me gay and holds my head under the bathwater. I don’t know how to drive a car, but I like to sit in the driver’s seat and pretend.
I am six. Tasha calls me gay and holds her hand over my mouth and nose while I sleep. I love to ride the shiny, coin-operated race-car ride outside the supermarket.
I am seven. Tasha calls me gay and tries to suffocate me with a living room pillow. I am driving bumper cars at a country fair.
I am almost seventeen. Tasha says I swing the other way and puts me in the Tasha grip in the middle of the kitchen in front of our parents. I am driving through a watery black hole, never to return.
18
THE HIGHWAY IS made of ice cream. The bridges are made of waffle cones. There are smiling, waving Walt Disney characters as mile markers. Each one says, “Hello, Gerald!” I take the butter pecan exit. The road is bumpy from pecans. I bounce into the backseat, where Snow White sits with her hands on her lap and says, “Good boy, Gerald! You’ve made us all very proud.”
Snow White looks out the window and waves to her friends as we pass each one. Goofy. Pluto. Mickey. Donald. They blow kisses to her.
She says, “Would you like a regular cone or sugar?”
“Regular, please,” I answer. She hands me a chunky cherry regular cone, and I begin to eat it.
The limousine driver asks, “How’s the weather back there? Are you too hot? Too cold? I can adjust it if you want.”
“I’m fine,” I say.
Snow White says she’s cold, so he turns up the heat. “Ladies first,” the limo driver says. “You have to make them happy or else we all suffer, right, Gerald?”
“Right,” I say, but I don’t mean it. I can’t see why ladies have to come first. Not in Gersday.
When I look out the window, I see we’re driving to Disney World. There are signs that say ONLY 100 MILES TO THE MOUSE! or BE OUR GUEST! I eat my ice cream and try to ignore the stifling heat. Snow White doesn’t seem bothered. She just keeps waving to her friends.
“Gerald,” the limo driver says, “do you want to go to the circus before or after we drop Snow White at home?”
I don’t know how to answer this question.
Then Snow White hands me an inflatable hammer. It’s the same one I won at the fair when I was five. I wondered where it went. I hug it even though I am nearly seventeen and there is no reason for me to hug an inflatable hammer. Then she hands me a Ziploc bag of Game Boy games. When I look closely, I see they are all the games I ever asked for. The ones I never got. Before I can hug those, she hands me a puppy. And a hamster. And then she hands me a card that says
Happy 8th Birthday!
On the inside, she has forged Mom’s and Dad’s signatures perfectly. I realize that Snow White is a lot craftier than she seems. I’d never have pegged her as a forger. She always seemed so sweet.
Suddenly I don’t want to be in the backseat with crafty Snow White, but I’m covered in all the things she’s given me. A shoe box full of baseball cards. A pair of in-line roller skates. A little ball for my hamster to run around in. And it’s hot back here. And the puppy is thirsty—he makes that thirsty breathing noise with his tongue out. Snow White looks at me and smiles, but I don’t trust her anymore. She
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