All of Me Read online

  but I’m okay.

  She laughs louder.

  I reach for her hand,

  feel the length of her shoulder, her arm.

  That’s it, I say, laughing.

  Don’t make me sit on you.

  Her hands finally tired,

  she surrenders

  in quiet laughter,

  breath,

  cheese,

  the unexpected warmth

  of bodies close

  beneath the countless stars.

  After Champagne

  Eyes open,

  my head glued to the pillow,

  my body pressed against the planked floor,

  lost in wood and paint,

  I feel my hair with tired hands

  and find my heartbeat in the center

  of my skull.

  There is no other sound.

  I taste all of last night.

  Lisa sits cross-legged

  on the bench outside,

  her hair a circlet

  of gold straw.

  She stares

  into her phone.

  My mother in the far corner

  of the garden, coffee

  steaming into the sky.

  I am hungry.

  I want a bagel with lox and cream cheese.

  I want pancakes, French toast.

  I want to dip my oranges in a pool of syrup.

  I want bacon and eggs and a huge

  plate of hash browns.

  I slip Mysterious World

  under my arm,

  walk through the garden

  in my socks, each step, dust,

  each breath a question.

  I want to ask Lisa

  about the night before,

  but when I sit down,

  I’m too nervous,

  and the questions all float away,

  so instead I find other words.

  You know, people always think

  yeti and Bigfoot are the same.

  But for once, I don’t really

  want to talk about this.

  I wish I could find

  the right words to say.

  Closing the Gallery

  Coffee-soaked

  and exhausted,

  my mother walks over to us.

  She looks at my eyes.

  I need you to stay with Lisa tonight

  at her house.

  She smiles at Lisa.

  Your mom is back.

  But I see she’s nervous.

  She doesn’t like

  leaving us at Lisa’s house.

  She unfolds sections

  of her plans like a map,

  points to ideas,

  unexplored reasons:

  busy meetings,

  business dealings, unexpected

  turns of events.

  She calls it adventure,

  like she’s trying to be brave

  for all the business she has to do.

  Last night fades into

  in-between places.

  We pack our stuff for the drive

  back to the world.

  Lisa is in the back seat,

  not feeling good.

  I want to tell her

  how much fun

  I had the night before.

  I want to talk

  about how much closer

  I feel to her now,

  how glad I am that she’s my friend.

  I want to ask

  if she will float with me

  over the Pacific

  in champagne bubbles,

  but she’s curled up into

  a morning glory,

  petals folded

  over her head,

  silent as we wind our way

  down Throckmorton Avenue.

  Lisa’s House

  My mother coughs and smiles.

  Okay, she says, I should be back

  FIRST thing in the morning.

  She reminds me to be polite,

  to call if I need anything.

  She hands me six five-dollar bills.

  She makes me say her number out loud to her.

  At times like this, she says,

  I wish you did have your own phone.

  I shrug.

  The long stairs to Lisa’s house

  wind in mossy disarray,

  slate and stepping-stones

  threaded through a leafy garden

  between three old redwoods.

  Swings creak on ancient branches,

  and flowers reach into spots of sunlight.

  Lisa’s mom steps out from the front door.

  She hugs my mom and me

  and then her daughter.

  Her body is strong,

  her hair soaked

  from a shower.

  She smells like medicine

  and daisies.

  Ari! she says, and she runs her hand

  over my body like I am a statue.

  She puts her hand on my stomach

  and under my chin.

  You look so goood!

  Her o’s roll the long way.

  I try not to shrink back,

  to feel and believe the words.

  Her face wants to be beautiful,

  like she is from some other world.

  Her hands, long and thin,

  spiraled in rings and bracelets

  of gold and silver, shine.

  Lisa takes my hand,

  and we go inside.

  The house is white,

  filled with colorful pillows,

  magazines, the smell of smoke.

  We sit and play with her dogs,

  twin Maltese with knotted fur.

  She tries to hug them, but they

  just keep jumping in and out of Lisa’s lap.

  Outside, the mothers

  talk. Hands flail

  in all directions,

  stories and pronouncements,

  bodies shifting.

  It’s normal for a moment,

  and then I see my mom

  grab Lisa’s mom by the hands

  with a painter’s grip,

  and she says something

  eye to eye.

  When they come in,

  my mother kisses us both

  and walks through the door.

  Lisa’s mom smiles

  at us, walks to the kitchen,

  pours a glass of wine,

  and I feel the taste

  of champagne

  coming up from my stomach.

  Lisa looks at her mom.

  I see her shoulders suddenly

  hunch forward, and

  she takes my hand,

  squeezes tightly,

  her mouth forming

  words she’ll never say.

  Fight the Corn Chip

  Her mom gives me

  a tuna fish sandwich,

  rye bread, toasted, sliced in half,

  corn chips stacked on the plate,

  a Coke.

  I already know that I’m not drinking

  the soda, but I put a corn chip in my mouth.

  I feel Lisa looking at me,

  clear, green eyes, telling the story

  of the boy who couldn’t

  fight the corn chip.

  I take the edge of the chip,

  scrape the tuna off the bread.

  I place eight chips along the edge

  of the tuna,

  stack and eat them,

  just the eight,

  one by one.

  The best chips I’ve ever had.

  We spend the day on her phone.

  I hate talking on the phone.

  I don’t know what to say,

  but that’s what we do.

  We call her friend in Corte Madera,

  a girl I’ve never met.

  Lisa says a few words about me,

  cute, shy, supercool,

  hands me the phone and says,

  Talk to Gretchen.
She’s totally funny.

  Silence.

  Lisa hits me in the leg, and grits her teeth. Go!

  I say hello.

  Gretchen

  Her phone voice is smooth, with a slight upward tilt

  at the end of each sentence. It’s scratchy too, in places.

  She tells me that she has red hair. So red, she says,

  it’s orange. It’s, like, super rad, she says.

  She tells me that she likes vintage music,

  just like we do.

  Do you like glam rock bands

  from the eighties? she says.

  She tells me about Quiet Riot,

  and how the names of the songs

  are spelled in ways we shouldn’t know about.

  She sings to me, and she somehow gets me singing.

  Come on feel the noise!

  Girls, rock your boys!

  She stops in the middle,

  makes sure that I am headbanging.

  Lisa, in and out of the room,

  doodling pastels on giant paper,

  laughs and headbangs with me.

  Later, Gretchen tells me I have a cute voice,

  that we should get along,

  no matter what we look like.

  Glow-in-the-Dark Stars

  Beneath glow-in-the-dark stars

  we listen to Duran Duran.

  I stare at Lisa’s shelves:

  a stuffed cat

  with some of the whiskers

  pulled out,

  blue-and yellow-

  painted frames filled

  with old photographs

  of people I don’t know.

  My favorite is one

  of Lisa when

  she was little,

  standing on a dock

  over a green pond,

  fishing with her dad, I think.

  On the dresser

  is a jewelry box

  swirled with necklaces

  and plastic bracelets,

  trinkets spread over

  the top onto the floor.

  One side of her room

  is a picture window

  covered in a rain forest curtain.

  I stare at the eyeball of a tapir

  peering out from

  the mudbank.

  I put my sleeping bag down.

  Is your mom really gonna

  let me sleep in here? I ask.

  Yeah, Lisa says, she doesn’t care.

  We all sleep

  in the planting room together,

  don’t we? Besides—she smiles—

  I want you to see the stars.

  Finally, near her door,

  a vintage three-section concert poster

  of Joe Elliott, the lead singer of Def Leppard,

  in leather pants

  and a Union Jack tank top.

  In one frame,

  he is leaning into the crowd.

  In another he is standing,

  playing air guitar with the band,

  and, in the lower half, his face,

  cradling the mic.

  He isn’t skinny in the poster,

  but the crowd is still reaching

  for him. He looks fierce. Unstoppable.

  We spread out pencils and markers,

  draw pictures.

  She draws more pictures of Elysium,

  the warrior queen, standing in the sun

  on some high cliff.

  Lisa is learning about perspective,

  so she draws legs almost three-dimensionally,

  stepping over a rise of green grass.

  I draw my warrior, Thall, a hunter,

  standing in the snow, his muscled arms

  leaning on his spear

  carved from a dragon’s tooth.

  He looks out toward the valley beyond.

  He is waiting for something.

  I want him to be a true hero,

  imagine how he might be a part

  of Elysium’s kingdom

  now that she is queen.

  Lisa slides our drawings together,

  holds them up beneath her desk lamp.

  She pulls some tape from

  the desk, sticks them to the wall.

  She steps back

  to look at the pictures,

  puts her arm around my

  shoulders. I feel the heavy,

  perfect weight of her strong arm,

  smooth against my neck,

  and I feel the fire race through

  to my toes. My body awake,

  my back straight.

  It’s one of the first times

  I realize that my stomach

  isn’t folding over my shorts as much.

  She curls her arms up

  into the air, flexing her muscles.

  I am Elysium. The world is at my feet!

  And there you are, her voice deep and silly,

  a strong, mighty hunter!

  Later, under the glow-in-the-dark stars,

  when everything is quiet at last,

  I unroll my bag

  on the floor.

  Lisa whispers,

  Good night, Ari,

  I’m glad you’re here.

  She points at her ceiling.

  We’re like those stars,

  floating through the galaxy.

  You’re like the brother

  I never knew I had.

  Her words fold around me.

  Brother.

  Like a brother, a best friend.

  I smile,

  but I feel like it’s

  more than that.

  I find the biggest star

  in the center of the ceiling sky,

  stare at it for a long time.

  I want to be more

  like two planets

  in orbit together.

  I want to tell her this,

  but by the time

  I find the courage,

  she’s already asleep,

  so instead I whisper,

  Good night,

  coil in my sleeping bag

  next to her bed,

  watch the glow fade

  from distant plastic stars.

  A Different Kind of Morning

  Lisa’s mom has put out cereal boxes

  and sits in the garden,

  talking on her phone,

  a book resting in her lap.

  Lisa makes me scrambled eggs

  with cheese without asking.

  Gretchen just texted me.

  Lisa smiles. We’re gonna meet her

  sometime this summer.

  I think about Gretchen and Lisa.

  I think about how

  everything seems like a new chance.

  My mother comes

  shortly after we eat.

  Her moccasins and work pants are absent,

  her tank top and paint-drenched

  canvas shirt

  missing.

  She wears some kind of business suit,

  gray over a white shirt, but still

  with her silvery necklace.

  I don’t recognize the way she looks in it.

  She hugs everyone, asks me standard

  Did you? questions that all parents ask.

  Did you have a good time?

  Did you brush your teeth?

  Did you get any sleep?

  Did you keep to your diet?

  Did you thank Lisa’s mom?

  I try to anchor myself to the next time

  I get to see Lisa.

  We hug, agree on soon,

  and drive off toward the city.

  Across the Golden Gate

  The Golden Gate Bridge is enormous.

  Its towers rise sentinel red

  over the headlands,

  into deep fog.

  I just need to take care of some business

  over the next week or so.

  My mother tries to sound upbeat, for my sake.

  I think of my father,


  that he must have a plan,

  that they are going to work it out.

  After all, this isn’t the first time

  they’ve been so mad at each other.

  Maybe he’ll even be home

  watching old shows,

  like we always do.

  I think of the rabbi’s

  methodical voice,

  how I haven’t been

  to a Hebrew lesson in a month,

  how whenever I mention anything

  about it, my mother just says,

  It’s your father’s job to deal with this.

  I can’t remember one prayer.

  I try to think where the tape

  of the rabbi speaking the prayers is.

  I search my room in my mind.

  Past the second tower,

  I feel the heaviness of San Francisco,

  invisible in a mass of swollen fog.

  I think about Pick in Australia now.

  I wish he was here.

  I picture Jorge, alone at the beach.

  I think about Lisa, the nursery,

  sand on my feet, clay between my fingers,

  my sleeping mat and pictures of robots taped all around it.

  My old body melting away.

  My white T-shirt, loose

  over my middle.

  My shorts that used to be tight

  are so baggy that my legs

  don’t press against the seams at all.

  We pass the Presidio, once an old army post,

  huge artillery batteries turned into

  living museums, and airstrips

  restored into wetlands and grassy fields,

  a huge park stretching all along the bay

  green and alive in the wet air,

  one of my favorite places

  in the city.

  We drive into the Marina,

  past the long, low rows

  of art deco houses

  my mother always points out,

  until we turn, at last,

  to the street where

  our apartment is.

  Through the bay window,

  I see the huge clay sculpture

  of a woman’s head

  looking out at the street,

  and it makes it feel

  a little like home

  even though I feel so different.

  Level 2: Ongoing Weight Loss

  The first thing I do

  when we get back

  to our apartment

  is weigh myself.

  21 pounds.

  21 pounds less