All of Me Read online

  that isn’t supposed to be there.

  Ari Rosensweig, he says, how are you?

  I don’t know how to answer him.

  I want to tell him

  that my mother is gone every day.

  I want to tell him that my father left,

  and I don’t understand why.

  I want to tell him that my heart is on fire over a girl.

  I want to tell him that I’m trying so hard

  to change my life.

  I want to tell him that I can’t do it.

  I have friends, but I’m lonely.

  I want to tell him that I don’t understand these prayers.

  I want to ask him if God is real, and why he cares about any of this.

  but

  I just say, Okay.

  He blinks. Smiles.

  And your mother?

  I tell him the truth,

  that she’s painting

  and sculpting a lot,

  she’s very, very busy, and we’re

  spending a lot of time at Stinson Beach.

  He asks me

  about my father.

  I wait. I let the silence slip through my fingers.

  He left, I blurt out.

  The rabbi looks at me.

  Without any words

  he goes to his desk,

  finds a bag of saltwater taffy,

  walks over and sits

  down next to me.

  Silently, he puts two wrapped

  pieces of blue taffy in my hand,

  squeezes my shoulder, and says,

  Let’s begin.

  When I Get Home

  All the lights are on.

  All the windows open.

  The sound of Zamfir’s pan flute

  fills the apartment.

  Zamfir, the Romanian pan flute player

  who, my mom says,

  is the greatest who ever lived.

  When I hear his music,

  I know my mom

  has had an especially hard day.

  She won’t even talk to me.

  The Truth

  I went to see the rabbi today.

  She smokes on the stairs

  outside the kitchen door.

  It was good, I say.

  I walk to the counter,

  find scrambled eggs,

  bacon, sausage, a few grapes.

  Breakfast for dinner?

  Silence

  I was worried sick,

  she says, looking down the street,

  away from me—

  Damn it,

  she shouts.

  The words bounce

  from window to window.

  Who

  do you

  think you are!

  She stomps her foot,

  then lurches forward,

  leaning, bent over.

  She coughs out of her throat,

  fights for air.

  She coughs,

  tries to talk,

  but her breath

  devours her words.

  I think of what to say,

  but nothing comes

  except the desire

  to make

  up a story

  to make

  her feel better,

  but I don’t want to lie, so I just wait.

  Until

  she lifts her head,

  opens her mouth,

  sucks in the atmosphere.

  The air races into her,

  becomes fire in her belly,

  forms one loud gasp,

  then

  releases,

  into

  screams

  screams

  screams

  into some turbulent vortex

  spinning, rising

  higher and higher,

  until she just

  stops.

  In that moment,

  I think she might somehow

  evaporate,

  a woman

  all gone.

  I didn’t think

  that she would worry.

  I’ve been left to myself

  so much.

  She slowly turns

  one leg at a time,

  her frame bent,

  the glass still vibrating.

  I wasn’t sure if I should go, Mom.

  I won’t go again.

  No, she says, suddenly calm.

  Her eyes are murky, exhausted.

  I’m so sorry, Mom.

  I won’t go again, who cares

  about this bar mitzvah anyway!

  It’s just something Dad wanted.

  I try my best

  to be on her side,

  even though I do care.

  I would cry, she says,

  but I have nothing left.

  She puts her hand on my shoulder.

  Her face quivering,

  That wasn’t meant for you,

  my big man, she says.

  Go see the rabbi.

  This bar mitzvah

  is important for all of us.

  She looks me in the eyes.

  I think of a million questions.

  I don’t ask any of them.

  Then she pulls me into her.

  You know I love you, she says.

  I do know.

  You’re growing up so much. Her sobs turn into a laugh.

  I guess it’s time to get you your own phone.

  She puts her hands on my middle.

  You are getting skinny! She coughs,

  still crying off and on.

  I have to get some sleep.

  She walks toward her bedroom.

  Oh. She turns, calming down a bit.

  Sunday, I think.

  Sunday we can go back to the beach.

  Calling Lisa

  I call Lisa

  to let her know

  that Sunday we get to go back!

  She doesn’t answer,

  and there is no voice mail.

  I wish I could text her,

  but whatever’s

  going on, I hope she’s okay,

  all the way over on the other side

  of the Golden Gate Bridge.

  I tell my mom

  to call her mom,

  but she doesn’t answer either.

  Maybe, she says, we can stop

  by on our way.

  Gretchen

  I look for some graph paper

  so I can finally work

  on our game a little bit,

  but I find Gretchen’s number

  in my backpack, pushed

  between the jacket fold

  of Mysterious World.

  I dial the number.

  Hello? she answers in her scratchy,

  freckled voice. Hello?

  Hello, I say. This is Ari, um, Lisa’s friend?

  I am so nervous.

  I know who you are, she says.

  She laughs immediately,

  like my voice is the voice

  she’s been waiting for all morning.

  I feel my body sit straighter,

  my mind ease. We talk,

  and it’s good.

  I can’t stop talking.

  I tell her about things

  I did in these few days I’ve been here.

  I tell her truth mixed with untruths.

  I tell her about how my dad left.

  Oh my god, she says. I’m so sorry.

  I tell her other things.

  I’ve been riding my bike

  all the way to Pier 39,

  over to the arcade.

  I played some basketball

  down by the Marina.

  I bought a bunch of new comics.

  Do you read comics? I ask.

  No, she says, but I want to.

  I don’t tell her how much

  I stare into the mirror,

  guarding my body against

  gaining any more weight back

  or how I’m starting t
o wonder

  if I have to stay on this diet forever.

  When I stop talking,

  her voice is a waterfall.

  She tells me about how she thinks

  in high school she might become an artist,

  and how she is trading Quiet Riot for Prince.

  because he’s so rad.

  Before we hang up,

  she makes me promise

  to call her back in a few days.

  I promise, and then I ask her,

  Have you talked to Lisa?

  You totally like her, she says.

  Gretchen laughs into the phone

  and her laugh makes me laugh too.

  Lisa’s totally awesome,

  but so am I.

  Just wait till we meet.

  August

  Level 3

  At the start of August,

  I have lost almost

  30 pounds.

  All the biking and swimming

  is changing me too.

  The insides of my thighs

  are a straight line

  all the way to my knees,

  but most of all,

  when I see myself

  in the mirror

  or a store window,

  I notice

  my jaw,

  smooth,

  just one chin, my chin,

  at the end,

  where it’s supposed to be.

  My mother asks me

  if I’m ready for Level 3.

  I’m supposed to eat more carbs now.

  I’m supposed to stress my body with food.

  Test it.

  Stress it?

  I don’t want to. I’m tired.

  Berries

  cherries

  melons

  orange

  pear

  a small banana

  The book says I may soon experience uncontrollable cravings.

  But I have come so far. How could it get any worse?

  Mysterious World

  There will always be things unknown and perhaps unknowable.

  Arthur C. Clarke

  I open up Arthur C. Clarke’s

  Mysterious World

  and stare at the empty eyes of the crystal skull,

  let myself walk through those deep corridors.

  I want to be like Arthur C. Clarke,

  a naturalist. I want to carry

  a notebook and a camera,

  travel the world unlocking

  mysteries of Earth:

  frogs and fish falling from the sky,

  the Green Children from Woolpit,

  who spoke a language

  never heard before.

  Like the travelers who

  first discovered animals, fairy-tale monsters,

  nunda, the king cheetah, the okapi,

  the mountain gorilla.

  I imagine my own expeditions traveling

  to the deep Amazon, Kilimanjaro, Loch Ness,

  or through the Himalayas.

  In the introduction,

  Clarke writes,

  The universe is such a strange and wonderful place that reality will always outrun the wildest imagination.

  The letters are worn from my finger

  passing through the words.

  He reminds me that no matter what,

  the one thing

  that’s not a lie,

  is that mystery is real.

  31

  When I go back to the beach, I think,

  I might even take off my shirt.

  I practice in our apartment,

  walk to the tall mirror in the hallway,

  stare at the white tank top,

  and slowly lift it off.

  I try to unhunch my shoulders,

  but they feel cemented

  from years of

  trying to be more compact.

  This time, as I stand up,

  my stomach

  and my belly

  sit firmly above

  the button of my shorts.

  When I lean my head forward,

  I have one chin, and my legs

  are thinner. I think I might

  even be taller.

  This doesn’t look like me.

  It can’t be me.

  I don’t look like this,

  normal.

  What if I didn’t weigh myself.

  Not now.

  Not ever again?

  This can’t be right,

  to live like this,

  scale to scale,

  pound to pound,

  forever?

  I walk slowly to the bathroom,

  eye the scale, and step

  one foot in front of the other.

  The tiny white stage,

  an altar.

  Hello, scale, I whisper,

  and close my eyes

  so the numbers have time

  to settle. Before I open my eyes,

  I tell myself a lie,

  that I don’t care,

  but I push it away,

  and instead I utter something

  like a prayer.

  I open my eyes,

  see the number,

  do the math in my head

  of all the weight I have lost.

  21

  16

  and now: 31.

  I breathe,

  step off.

  Step on

  right away

  to make sure.

  31. Thirty-one.

  31.

  31.

  It feels good,

  but then, for a moment,

  I think about the 31.

  Where does it all go,

  so much weight

  suddenly gone

  from my body?

  Inside, I can still feel it,

  but it’s different,

  still a part of me,

  but transformed,

  not heavy anymore,

  just weightless memories

  of the real me.

  The Heaviest Water Is My Father

  I go with my mother to do errands

  in the morning, and we have breakfast

  at the Chestnut Street Bar and Grill.

  She says I can have one piece of toast,

  but I don’t. I don’t feel like eating.

  I’m tired of errands and meetings,

  of always wondering what will happen.

  I have one more meeting today. With a lawyer.

  I look up from my eggs.

  You look so different, she says.

  I don’t respond. She keeps talking.

  The business is sold.

  I just need to sign the papers today.

  So, she changes the subject,

  I have a new idea

  for a series of drawings.

  She pulls a pen from her purse,

  sketches a perfect hand reaching down

  from the sky onto a beach,

  talks to me about

  some ancient goddess,

  some story about rebirth

  and redemption.

  I think this new work

  will make the ground shake.

  Why? I ask, annoyed. I can’t take it anymore.

  She looks at me, draws her napkin toward her. Why?

  Yes, I say. Why does it even matter?

  Sometimes it seems like the art

  matters more than I do.

  Maybe my dad isn’t here

  because he felt like this too.

  I look down into my plate

  then at her hand sketching on the napkin.

  For once, I wish she would stop sketching.

  Stop, I say, loud.

  The man at the next table looks

  up from his book.

  She leans in, holds my hands

  like I’m a little boy.

  Mom, I groan, stop.

  It’s okay, Ari, she tries to soothe me.

  Expression is everything.

&nb
sp; I shake her hands off me,

  stand up,

  throw down my napkin,

  my hands balled into fists.

  In this moment

  more than any other time,

  I want my father.

  I want HIM to explain this to me,

  what it means to sell a business,

  to leave your family.

  I want concrete rules,

  like D&D rules.

  Roll this die and 16–20

  is a hit.

  Ari, she says, tries to calm me,

  and I feel the people

  in the restaurant looking.

  I walk toward the door.

  I want to rip the menus off the wall.

  I want to feel ocean water on my face.

  I want to be someplace quiet,

  reading Mysterious World.

  I want my father.

  Where is he?

  Does he care that she’s selling the business?

  How can he let all this happen?

  Where was he when I was on the bike path?

  I want him to know

  that the time he told me about,

  when he was a kid

  and they called him Jewboy,

  happened to me too.

  I want to tell him

  that I still

  watch our

  old shows on Netflix.

  I want to tell him

  that I went to see the rabbi

  all by myself.

  I sit down outside

  on a bench near

  the restaurant window.

  When my mother comes,

  she looks embarrassed, tired,

  but she sits down on the bench

  close to me.

  It’s then that I feel tears.

  I can’t stop them.

  I think about how maybe

  my father was the heaviest

  part of me.

  And now that he has drained

  away, I feel less than who I am.

  She pulls me

  by my elbow

  up and onto my feet.

  I don’t fight it.

  When we reach our apartment

  she puts her hand on my head.

  Do you have your keys?

  My breathing is slow now. Normal.

  It’s going to be okay, Ari.

  I turn up the stairs.

  I’ll see you tonight!

  Hey, why don’t you call Lisa again?

  See if she wants us to pick her up?