All of Me Read online

  if I just lay there long enough.

  Somewhere in San Francisco

  miles away from here

  my parents are selling dresses

  or looking at paintings.

  I make it to Pick’s house,

  find the hidden key

  beneath the loose board.

  I thought Pick would be there,

  but he’s not.

  I shower.

  I put ice on my body.

  I find a bed.

  I hide the bruises.

  I hide them from everyone

  inside all my extra skin.

  Manhood

  One night, my father talks

  to me about my bar mitzvah.

  It’s about becoming a man, Ari,

  taking responsibility,

  standing up for yourself.

  When he says this,

  I almost find the courage

  to tell him about what happened

  on the bike path. But I don’t

  think he would understand.

  After all, I didn’t stand up

  for myself, at least,

  not the way he means.

  He wants me to fight

  back with fists.

  I don’t know if I want

  to stand up for myself

  in that way.

  Why does being a man mean

  I have to hurt someone else?

  A long time ago

  in Brooklyn,

  at my grandparents’ house,

  we played tag

  on the street outside

  the brownstone.

  In the middle of the game,

  we stopped, something happened.

  An older boy held a dragonfly

  against the cement,

  fingers pressed

  on its thorax

  and forewings.

  It vibrated

  beneath the sun.

  Another older boy

  held a magnifying glass

  above its tail.

  The lens collected the sun

  from the asphalt.

  The dragonfly searched

  with 30,000 facets

  of its compound eye

  over the reaches of

  its territory

  its green wetland

  a world away.

  But then these older kids

  crushed the dragonfly to the ground,

  got on their bikes

  and came after us instead.

  They took our toys,

  pushed us down,

  even pulled the girls’ hair.

  We went upstairs

  to tell the fathers.

  My father took

  a long wooden spoon

  from the kitchen,

  put it into my palm.

  Here, he said,

  stick this in his spokes.

  We went back

  armed with spoons and dowels,

  golf clubs and two umbrellas,

  and we thrust them into the spokes

  of the tires

  like pistons firing

  into wiry chaos

  until we got one.

  But in that moment

  I didn’t feel like a man at all.

  I felt cruel.

  The first kid flew

  over his handlebars,

  his arms tucked under him,

  his shoulders

  sudden and forward,

  his face, pale, ageless,

  skidded across the concrete

  from knee, to shoulder, to head,

  his own blood pooling

  around his hands,

  one leg up, turned

  toward the sky.

  Legs and bikes

  and long hair

  and smashed dragonfly wings.

  Kids.

  Not enemies,

  not friends.

  Kids

  who made mistakes,

  who could not turn

  one bloody cheek for another.

  I don’t want to go through that again.

  There has to be a different way

  to stand up for myself,

  to take responsibility,

  to be a man.

  How to Appear Less Fat

  According to my mom’s fashion magazine

  One)

  Shoulders back and up,

  butt directly under,

  chin turned down,

  head slightly forward

  to avoid double chin.

  Arch lower back slightly.

  This will cause the stomach to elongate

  just enough to avoid

  “rolling.”

  This will also ease tension on

  any button, belt, or zipper

  or any combination of these.

  Breathe shallow,

  short and through the nose,

  mouth closed and grave.

  Smiles are for later.

  Be sure that the lower back

  does not touch the back of the chair.

  Avoid any chance of indentation,

  unless when sitting in the back

  of the room,

  then slouching is okay.

  Nobody is watching you.

  Nobody is thinking of this.

  But you are.

  You are.

  Two)

  An exercise to get rid of

  a double chin.

  An extra chin

  lives with me.

  It’s part of my neck

  and my head

  and it won’t go away.

  Sometimes I imagine

  my headaches

  come from the weight

  pulling my head down

  all day.

  Twice a day,

  I lean my head back

  whenever I can

  stretch the skin

  from chest to chin.

  I lift it up

  elongate and count to ten,

  twice a day.

  This will work

  if I stay with it.

  Elevate, Arise, Walk Home

  Baruch a ta Adonai

  El-u hey … arggghh!

  I get it wrong every time,

  and I cry a little

  from frustration.

  Did you practice?

  the rabbi asks.

  Yeesss! I lie.

  The rabbi sits patiently

  in his overstuffed chair.

  He drones the blessings

  back to me. We start again.

  His office smells like honey

  and pipe tobacco and books.

  He shines at me from beneath

  the one lamp that he allows.

  I want to break out of here,

  but I like him, even though

  he is tough. Again, Ari.

  Elevate. What? You don’t

  want to make your parents proud?

  I do.

  But what I really want

  is to jump on my bike,

  ride through Chrissy Field

  all the way to Fort Point

  and the Golden Gate.

  I want to feel my legs

  burn from riding.

  I want a Three Musketeers.

  Here, he says,

  let’s record today.

  And he fumbles

  with an old tape recorder,

  hits Record and Play

  at the same time.

  In a few months,

  I will receive my aliyah,

  being called to the Torah.

  My bar mitzvah,

  where the rabbi

  will call me up,

  tell me to Arise

  in front of his congregation

  and recite blessings

  and prayers.

  When it’s all done,

  according to tradition,

  I become a man.

  But I don’t know if this can work.

  My dad says we are l
ucky

  to find a rabbi who would

  still help us.

  Most kids start years before.

  They attend Hebrew school,

  or even take classes online,

  but my parents

  always seemed too busy

  to get it going.

  Part of me hoped

  they might even forget.

  The more I learn

  about these traditions,

  how important they are,

  how intricate,

  the more nervous I get.

  After it’s done,

  I need to observe all 613 mitzvot,

  feeding the poor,

  being kind to strangers,

  honoring my parents—

  so much responsibility.

  I remember my cousin’s

  bat mitzvah,

  rhythmic prayers,

  and unending songs,

  and grown-up tears,

  but mostly I remember

  my cousin,

  radiant in her

  cream-colored dress,

  her eyes

  filled with blue and white,

  a sudden and beautiful woman.

  Bright moonlight

  and party lights,

  fireflies in the grass,

  dancing in strobe lights,

  with cousins and friends

  deep into the night.

  Games: Hula-Hoop

  and hot potato,

  a thousand dance contests,

  Coke and Pepsi.

  Brisket, chopped liver,

  baskets of bread

  and chocolate rugelach,

  near a counter filled

  with black-and-white cookies.

  My aunt Cookie

  and my grandparents

  at the long cedar table

  near the pond.

  The fireflies rose

  and doubled on the water.

  The grown-ups spent the evening there,

  speaking a secret language of hope

  and memory.

  They stopped each time

  a child passed

  to smile or pat a head,

  adjust a tie,

  wipe a mouth.

  I found my mother and father

  dancing, his left hand

  straight out, holding her hand tightly.

  They were looking at each other

  in a black tuxedo and a silver gown

  and the starlight.

  Later that night, I ask them if mine will be like this.

  Better! my father says, and he grabs my face.

  Better, you mensch.

  Again, Ari, the rabbi says,

  and I start again.

  June

  Clothes Like Spider-Man

  I always wanted

  to look like Peter Parker,

  just a kid, like me,

  trying to figure it all out.

  The clothes seem

  to just hang off his body,

  like he doesn’t need them at all.

  For a while,

  I wore a vest

  like Han Solo’s.

  I liked the way it covered my belly.

  At Camp Shalom,

  near the lake,

  I used to watch everyone else,

  shirts off, their bodies

  tight-skinned and unashamed.

  I wanted to be able to do that,

  to just stand there in myself.

  I want to be like Mark,

  broad-shouldered

  and muscle-armed.

  His 501s in perfect form,

  tight around the waist,

  the Levi’s patch on display,

  32/30, lightly wrinkled at the knee,

  a perfect fold at the foot.

  On the bike path,

  when Frank kicked my leg

  while I lay on the ground,

  my shirt had crept up

  over my stomach and back

  from the fall off the bike.

  The fly on my own

  501s was unbuttoned;

  I never button it when I ride,

  too tight, too uncomfortable.

  They laughed at the way

  my belly filled the open space.

  I might have laughed too

  if I were standing there,

  my 501s, 40/32.

  Spider-Man’s suit

  is skintight,

  and that must feel weird.

  At least, though,

  he gets to wear a mask.

  Who Am I?

  In our San Francisco apartment,

  Pick and I wait for my mom

  to take us out to Stinson Beach,

  where we will spend the summer.

  Pick’s mom says he can stay over as much as possible.

  We stack our backpacks

  and fill a wide green

  cardboard box

  with books and markers

  and drawing pads

  for the game

  we are designing.

  Flip-flops and swim trunks,

  flashlights and first-aid kits,

  his old iPad for recording,

  robot action figures strictly

  for reference for the robots

  in the game.

  Dice, lead figures,

  folders full of graph paper.

  We pack our “survival” knives

  we bought at the flea market,

  complete with compass in the hilt.

  Pick’s stack of vintage records:

  the Cars, Prince, Van Halen,

  Duran Duran, the Police,

  Michael Jackson, Madonna.

  Books: 1984; Ogre, Ogre; Harry Potter books;

  Dune; The Hunger Games;

  a bunch of graphic novels;

  and of course

  my favorite book,

  the bible of cryptozoology

  and supernatural stuff,

  the hardback edition

  of Arthur C. Clarke’s

  Mysterious World.

  Pick carefully packs

  his Robotech RPG sourcebooks

  into his game folders

  and then suddenly asks,

  So, did you tell your

  parents about what happened

  on the bike path?

  Of course.

  I look away.

  actually no.

  I can feel Pick is annoyed.

  His voice suddenly fills the hallway:

  What’s wrong with you?

  Why are you hiding it?

  It’s like you stuff down

  every bad thing that happens

  like you stuff down pizza at lunch.

  I look at him.

  He takes a breath.

  Sorry, Ari, I didn’t mean that,

  it’s just …

  I look down at the floor.

  No, you’re right, I say.

  They’ll just get mad at me.

  He’ll want me to fight back.

  It’ll make things even worse.

  That’s usually what happens

  to me anyway.

  Things get worse.

  I shrink even as I pull up my pants.

  The elastic wears out so quickly

  and the pants always fall just below

  my belly line.

  I turn myself toward him.

  His face straightens,

  taller now, stronger.

  He moves his hands up and down

  in frustration, like no matter what

  he says, I won’t listen.

  Argh! You are such a coward, Ari.

  I am.

  But he doesn’t stop. He says

  words and phrases: overweight, grow up.

  Then he kicks his backpack over.

  Stop feeling sorry for yourself! he shouts.

  Words spin into webs, filling the apartment

  with silken memories of things I said,

  and memories
of late-night talks

  about how I look, and how much I wish

  I could change, mixed with

  promises unfulfilled: The trip we never took,

  video games unplayed, histories confused.

  I am completely tangled up.

  Sometimes, Ari, it’s so hard to be your friend.

  You stay with us,

  you say you want help,

  but you don’t tell us what’s going on with you.

  You say you want to change,

  but you are too busy feeling sorry for yourself!

  His voice gets louder and louder, and then suddenly

  trails off into quiet words:

  Who do you think you are?

  His words, finally, feel like a slap across my face,

  and suddenly my fists clench.

  Who am I? I yell back, my words echoing

  in the hall, a defense, a learned movement

  taken from my parents,

  a higher pitch blown back at a defensive angle,

  but hollow and with no teeth.

  And in my mind, I ask myself,

  Yeah, who am I?

  My name is Ari Rosensweig.

  Last year, I was the newest kid

  at school.

  I am a fat kid, and I hate it

  when people call me Fatboy.

  My life doesn’t feel good enough,

  and I don’t know how to change it.

  I start to make a story of defense in my head,

  to answer the question of who I am

  in one mighty sentence

  or even to make another layer

  of promise about getting revenge

  for what happened on the bike path,

  but Pick knows me too well. He knows

  that I don’t want to fight.

  Look, Ari. You always tell me

  I am like your brother. Trust me.

  I think we can make some changes.

  I want to trust him,

  like he’s my real brother.

  He is trying to help me, I think.

  He’s asking me what I am going to do about it.

  Things calm down,

  and we start talking about

  the ways that the robots

  in our game might adapt

  to beach conditions.

  By the end of the morning,

  his words are at work,

  and I feel that this summer

  is already something else

  than what I thought it would be,

  not the end of seventh grade,

  but the start of a new story

  all my own.

  The Nursery

  My mother stops

  at the first left

  off Shoreline Highway

  in Stinson Beach.