“You’re American,” I say to Snow White. “Why’d you call it that?”
Snow White looks confused again.
“Americans don’t say plaster. We say Band-Aid.”
I look down at the road in front of my headlights. It is clearly tarmacadam. I look down at the bowl between my legs. It is clearly chicken salad. I am suddenly ravenous, so I reach back and pull out some bread from the bag and scoop up some chicken salad with one piece and plop the other piece of bread on top.
I demand to eat a chicken salad sandwich right now.
My phone buzzes with a text from Dad. Did you get out?
I decide not to answer him.
I decide the question is bigger than any question he’s ever asked me.
Did I get out? Yes and no.
Get out of what? Do you really think I have a chance to get out of this shit?
50
“YOU WOKE ME UP,” Hannah says.
“It’s a long story,” I say.
“What’s a long story?”
“The story I’m going to tell you in a half hour when I pick you up.”
“I’m sleeping.”
“I’m leaving. Now,” I say.
“To the circus?”
“To wherever. To whatever. I’m not going back.”
I hear her sit up and switch a light on. “Seriously?”
“Yeah.”
“You want me to come with you?”
“That’s the plan,” I say.
“I kidnap you. You kidnap me?”
“Yep.”
“You got a list of demands yet?” she asks.
“A mile long,” I lie.
“I don’t have one yet,” she says. There’s shame in her voice.
“We have all the time in the world.”
“Seriously, Gerald? We’re going to do this?”
“Seriously, Hannah. We’re going to do this.”
She sighs. “Be here in half an hour?”
“More like twenty minutes,” I say.
“How long should I pack for?”
This question stumps me. It reminds me that I haven’t talked to Joe Jr. yet. It reminds me that this could be a complete failure. It reminds me that I’m seventeen and Hannah is sixteen. Underage runaways. Incarcerated Ingrates. Locked-Up Lovers.
“Gerald?”
“Yeah?”
“How long do I pack for?”
“I don’t know,” I say.
She says, “Okay.” Then she hangs up.
I am still pissed off at Snow White for being British. She shouldn’t be anything but a wholesome, famous American cartoon character who washes seven dwarfs and all their clothing and their house and who mends their shoes. She should be happy being American. She should be happy being famous, even though she’s made herself a willing slave to seven little people.
Isn’t that what fame is, anyway? Being slaves to little people? My slave name was the Crapper. My slave job was to crap and make millions of little people happy.
My other slave name was Gerald. My slave job was to make my crazy sister Tasha look smart by letting my mom call me retarded my whole life.
I pull over into a gas station parking lot to let time pass. I’m about ten minutes early. I pick up my phone and text Joe Jr. Where are you in Florida? You never sent your address. I send it even though it makes me feel like a moron. Would I give my address to him? Would Hannah give her address to anyone? Joe Jr. isn’t going to send me his address. So, all I have is the tag on his YouTube video: Bonifay, FL.
I text Dad. I got out.
I make another chicken salad sandwich and eat it. Then I get back on the road to Hannah’s house. She’s waiting by the mailbox when I get there, her red backpack on her back, and wearing her leather jacket and a ripped-up pair of jeans.
When she flops into the passenger’s seat, she says, “Shit. What happened to you?”
It reminds me that I have just been through what Roger would call “an incident,” so I tell her everything. I even explain who Jacko the fake Jamaican is. About the boxing gym. About Roger. I stop short when my mouth tries to tell her about Tasha and how she tried to drown me and Lisi when we were little and how I escaped being murdered a lot. Something just chokes me when I try to say it.
“I can’t tell if this is stupid or not,” Hannah says as I drive toward the turnpike.
“What?”
“This,” she says.
“If you’re not okay with it, I can take you home,” I say.
“I don’t know.”
I slow down and make a U-turn in a bank parking lot. I head back to her house. Can I tell you that my heart is breaking? My heart is totally breaking.
“I didn’t tell you to turn around,” she says.
“I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to do,” I answer.
“Can you pull over?”
I pull over.
“I don’t want you to get mad, okay?” she says.
“Okay.”
“But you were right. I lied about something. I don’t think I can do this unless we talk about it first.”
My heart continues to break and I’m so busy thinking about it that I don’t stop to think what she might have lied about.
“When I said I wasn’t scared that you could hit me. I lied. I was. You got so mad so quick and I have an aunt who had a husband who did that and I get scared of it. I’m sorry. I don’t want to say anything else about it. I just had to say it.”
Fuck. My FS levels go up and I do all the stuff Roger taught me to make them go down again, but this doesn’t feel right. There is no way I can run away with Hannah now. She thinks I could hit her. As if I’m an animal or something. You were a dumbass to think she could ever love a loser like you in the first place.
Also, Gerald? She might be right. You never know.
“Gerald?”
I go to Gersday and I meet Lisi on the trapeze. Except she’s not there. Tasha is there, in a blue sequined trapeze costume, so I leave Gersday in time to hear what Hannah says next.
“I do think I love you,” she says. “I just can’t figure out what will happen if we go, you know?”
My voice is a little louder than I want it to be. “What will happen if we go is: We will be gone. That’s what you said you wanted, right? You wrote it in your birthday card. It’s all you’ve bugged me about for two weeks, isn’t it?”
“Shit. You don’t have to be an ass**le about it.”
I reach into the tray between the seats and grab the Sharpie marker. “Go ahead. Write it again. At least you had balls when you did that.”