Reality Boy by A. S. King

TV?
ANYONE:
That’s ridiculous. Why would you say something like that?
ME:
Because it’s true. Isn’t that the only reason to ever say anything?

21
    I HAVE NO idea how I got back to register #7. I don’t remember leaving the arena. I don’t remember knocking to get back in. I don’t remember squeezing by irresistible Register #1 Girl. I don’t remember counting out my drawer, but my money is in the zippered bag and my tally sheet is filled out and signed. By me. I have no idea where I was for the last hour. Last thing I remember is watching the circus.
    We have an hour break before the next show. Half the cashiers go out to smoke or call their loved ones. I think about my loved ones. I think about what happened in real life this morning. So I decide to go out and call Dad.
    “Hey, Ger, how’s work?” he says.
    “Fine,” I say.
    “Great,” he says.
    “Are you with clients?” I ask. He’s always with clients.
    “Nope. Driving to that place with the indoor swimming pool. Our secret, okay?”
    “Sure,” I say. Then I don’t say anything because I want him to talk first.
    “So… that was crazy this morning, wasn’t it?” he says.
    “Yeah. It was. My whole life’s been crazy, though, you know?” I say. “I mean, when it comes to—uh—Tasha.”
    “Yeah,” he says uncomfortably. “She exaggerates.” Not
She totally had it coming because she was trying to suffocate you
. Nothing like that.
    “I like girls,” I say. “So she’s wrong.”
    “You don’t have to tell me that,” he says. “Anyway, we’d love you no matter what.”
    I feel that’s code for something else. Like he believes her. Like he believes that I swing the other way.
    “So, did they call the police?” I ask.
    “The what?” he says, distracted by his GPS telling him to turn. “No. Of course not. It’s all fine.”
    I bit my sister in self-defense because she was trying to kill me in front of our parents. It’s fine. Clearly.
    I hear his door
bing
ing when he opens it and I hear him close it and mutter to himself about some key code. “Look, we should talk about this at home. Over drinks. Tonight? After work?” he says. “When do you get off?”
    “I’m not coming home,” I say. I surprise myself when I saythis. I check the concrete where I’m standing to make sure it’s not made of ice cream. Nope. Still cement.
    “Of course you’re coming home,” he says. “You’re sixteen. You live there. And we’ll work this out. I promise.”
    A puppy. A hamster, Rollerblades, baseball cards. I promise, I promise, I promise.
    I hear his shoes taking each step to the front porch and I hear him breathe more heavily as he gets to the top.
    “I’m not coming home,” I say. “Not while she lives there.” I feel a rush when I say this. Panic and fear and tiger all at once.
    “Look, we can talk later,” he says as he swings the front door open with a creak. “I’ll make sure this works out right, okay?”
    “I’m not coming home,” I say.
    I hang up and wander through the skinny smokers’ alley to the back of the PEC Center, where there’s a huge parking lot and loading bay. I hear yelling, so I walk until I can see who’s saying what. There’s this tall, round, bald guy and two skinny guys up against him. A woman sits behind them on a suitcase. The two skinny guys get right in the bald guy’s face.
    “We’re fuckin’ out of here, Joe,” one guy says.
    “This is such bullshit,” the other one says.
    “Tomorrow we’re in Philly. You can leave after that,” (assumed) Joe says. He rubs his bald head. “I just paid you! How can you fuck me over like this?”
    “Fuck Philly and fuck you,” the first guy says, and the three begin to walk away from Joe. I’m tense because, as muchas this sounds crazy coming from a face-eating, neck-crushing, sister-biting table-crapper, I’m not a big fan of confrontation.
    “Well, fuck you, too!” Joe says. He stands there for a minute, furious. “Good luck finding