“I guess we should go,” she says. “Or we could go to Ashley’s house and I could say hi to the fish,” she adds.
I really want to do this, but I can’t skip my meeting with Roger. I tell her, “I have my shrink appointment in an hour. Maybe tomorrow?”
I pull out of the baseball parking lot and drive down her road. When we get to her mailbox, she says, “Just drop me here.”
She leans in as if to give me a quick good-bye kiss, then pulls away and says, “Psych.” Then she slams the car door shut.
I blast the heat and take off for my meeting with Roger. I don’t know why I’m so cold. Then I look at the passenger’s seat and there’s Snow White holding an industrial-size tub of peach ice cream.
“Jesus,” I say. “You scared me.”
“Scared you?” Snow White laughs. “Why, I don’t think I’ve ever scared anyone in my whole life, Gerald.”
“Shit,” I say. Then I look at her and she’s smiling at me and I feel bad for cursing in front of Snow White.
Christ, Gerald. Have a sense of humor.
38
“HOW’S YOUR ANGER?” Roger says.
“It’s angry, I guess. I wouldn’t know. I haven’t seen it,” I say.
We look at each other.
“None at all?”
“Nope.”
We look at each other again.
“Seriously?”
“Seriously,” I say. Truth: I’m a little high on the pain pills I took out of Mom’s medicine cabinet.
“Proud of you, man.” He pats me on the arm and I can feel it vibrate all the way to my bruised, semi-numb ribs. “Last meeting you were still working on the feelings you had about your sister.”
“She’s a douche,” I say.
“Anger level?”
“Maybe a three or four,” I answer. “Nothing too bad. She called me a loser yesterday and I didn’t care,” I lie.
He looks at me like he knows I’m lying. “You on mellow pills or something?”
“No.”
“You know,” Snow White says. “You should probably tell him the truth.”
“Anything going on at school?” Roger asks.
Shut up, Snow White. “I’m good at algebra,” I say.
“Algebra? Huh. Good for you, man.”
“Thanks.” Yeah. Thanks for not noticing that most high school students are good at algebra two years ago and I’ve been purposely retarded by my own mother.
Mental note: Shit. You really need to think on that, Gerald.
Why would my mother want me to be retarded?
And, more important, has her inherent need for me to be in SPED class made me the face-eating, Jacko-beating ass**le I am today?
Snow White pipes up. “You can make it sound like you and that boy were just fighting in the ring. That’s not bad, is it? He couldn’t have expected you to last this long without getting into the ring.”
I shoot her a dirty look.
“Is something wrong?” Roger asks.
Everything is wrong. Everything is always wrong. Everything will always be wrong. But Roger doesn’t need to know any of this. Roger just needs me to get better. His supervisor needs to see annual improvement on my anger-survey scores and a decrease in incidents. That’s all Roger needs.
“Did something happen?” Roger asks.
“Nope.”
He squints at me as if to say Come on.
“I met a girl,” I say.
I half expect a slap on the back and raucous laughter, even after his warnings. Men talking about girls. Girls: the answer to all of our problems.
Instead, Roger winces. “Dude. Be careful.”
“She’s cool,” I say.
“I get it. You’re, like, seventeen and you like girls. I really get it,” he says. He taps his fingers together and looks for something else to say. “Just be careful. As much as you like her now, she’s going to drive you over the edge one day. I mean, this calm you have… it’s temporary.”
Snow White makes that annoying giggle in her throat. “Temporary. Oh my. We didn’t expect that, did we?”
“Gerald?”
“Yeah?” It’s like he’s the Crapper and he just crapped right on my joy.
“Did you hear me?” Roger asks.
“Yeah.” I am so f**king sick of people crapping on my joy.
“Is something wrong?”
I look at him and I can hear the blood rushing through my ears.
I look at Snow White and then at Roger. “How could anyone expect me to train in a gym full of aggressive ass**les and not end up in the ring fighting one of them? I mean, shit. What were you guys thinking? Why didn’t you suggest tennis or some shit like that? Why boxing? I was already beating people up, right?” I say.
Roger nods.
“I mean, am I wrong to think that was one of the stupidest ideas you ever had? And where were my parents when I came home and told them that I’d be doing this? Are they that f**king stupid? Boxing? Seriously?”
I’m watching him and I realize that he doesn’t even look disappointed. He almost looks happy that I’m saying this. Snow White is smiling so big I want to smack her. Have a sense of humor, Gerald.
I look at Roger’s entertained expression and I say, “Hold on. Was this some kind of a test or something?”
“Back up,” he says. “To the fight.” He cocks his head a little and smiles. “Did you win?”
I remind myself that Roger was once an angry little jerk-off like the rest of us in FS. He’s been saved and wants to save me. Or maybe not. Asshole.
And yet I can’t hold back my smirk. You’re an ass**le, too, Gerald.
Snow White looks disappointed in both of us.
“Show me your hands,” he says.
I do. He inspects the cracks and bruises and swellings. I lift my shirt without him having to ask, and show him my ribs. When I stretch my head downward, I see my skin has gone that deep purple-red color in spots and I wonder if I’m bleeding internally.
And then I see us from the outside—from Snow White’s perspective. I see a dumb kid lifting his shirt to show a dumb grown man his bruised torso. I see them both celebrating the win over Jacko the fake Jamaican. It’s like they enjoy pain. It’s like they want to be angry and bruised. It’s like they’re proud of it.
When I see it that way, I know it’s true. I am proud of it. I was proud the day I chewed that hole in What’s-His-Name’s cheek. I was proud on Saturday when I bit Tasha’s hand until it bled. I was proud every time I crapped on the kitchen table.