All of Me Read online

  and her words roll from English

  to Spanish and back again.

  For dessert,

  his mother holds a plate

  with two hands,

  sets it on the center of the table.

  Brazo de reina,

  she mouths out loud,

  a rolled-up cake

  filled with cream

  surrounded by fruit

  that look like hand grenades.

  Cherimoya, Jorge says.

  Ice cream fruit.

  And it is,

  like ice cream on my tongue.

  I take a bite of the cake,

  one flaky, delicious bite,

  taste the sugar and vanilla cream.

  For a moment, I want to eat it all,

  but then Jorge’s mother

  tells a joke about Jorge

  being the tallest boy since first grade,

  and Lisa can’t stop laughing,

  and then I can’t stop laughing,

  and I put down my fork.

  I feel good.

  One bite

  is just

  enough.

  Saint George

  After dinner

  the grown-ups drink

  thick-smelling coffee,

  and we linger near the door,

  eager to go out

  under the stars.

  Wait, wait, wait,

  his mother calls,

  pulls us in

  to the couches

  to tell us the story

  of how Jorge

  is actually

  Saint George.

  Jorge covers his eyes

  with long, dark-brown fingers.

  He doesn’t want to hear the story.

  At his church,

  when he was nine,

  at a prayer meeting

  in the glow of the stained glass

  Jorge placed his hand

  on the purple shoulder

  of a man bent over in pain,

  a heart attack, or

  a broken heart.

  He offered a prayer,

  spoke in a voice,

  they say,

  that was not his own,

  and when it was over,

  the man stood up

  in perfect health,

  his knees soaked

  in tears and sweat.

  They say that

  Jorge’s was the voice

  of the Holy Ghost.

  They say that the room,

  from the altar to the door,

  grew wild with

  yellow and green

  light, and flecks of gold dust

  filled the air.

  Lisa looks at me.

  Real gold? I ask.

  Jorge smiles shyly,

  shrugs like he can’t believe

  it happened either.

  Shhh, my mother

  tells us to quiet down,

  sips her coffee.

  They say

  that day that Jorge’s

  legs grew longer.

  That’s why he’s so tall.

  Jorge presses his legs close

  together like he’s

  trying to hide them.

  When word got out,

  the church fathers

  met over seven Sundays,

  and finally they

  made him a local saint.

  We look at my mother.

  She shifts in her seat.

  Beautiful story, she says,

  her face warm,

  her body relaxed.

  Like the midrash

  your grandpa tells.

  I love it.

  When the story ends,

  we walk outside and look toward

  the forests on the hills,

  make plans to hike Bolinas Ridge

  before the summer ends.

  10 Pounds

  By the end of June

  I’ve lost 10 pounds.

  A bag of rice,

  a bowling ball,

  a cat,

  three big bottles

  of soda.

  My shorts are looser,

  and I can fit two whole fingers

  between the waistline

  and my body.

  At lunch,

  my mother hands me a bag

  of veggie “pork” rinds,

  sour cream and onion.

  I eat them all.

  Lisa and I

  sit in our part of the gallery

  sculpting trolls.

  We try to teach Jorge

  how to do it,

  our hands coated in clay.

  By now they have

  driftwood bases,

  shells and dried sticks,

  rocks and bark.

  Even when I sit,

  my shirt feels loose.

  Loose.

  Something, for once, fits.

  Mitzvot

  My mother puts her hand on my shoulder,

  reminds me

  that pretty soon

  I will need to

  think about meeting

  with the rabbi again.

  My bar mitzvah is in the fall;

  I’m already so late.

  I need to prepare:

  a. Ask Questions

  b. Study Hebrew

  c. Do Mitzvot

  I remember, just before we moved,

  my grandma’s Brooklyn

  apartment, the smell

  of oily latkes and candle wax.

  It’s late, and I am sitting on

  my father’s knee,

  stacking four quarters,

  knocking them down,

  stacking them again.

  They talked like grown-ups,

  the low hum of my grandfather’s

  voice, each word half-full

  of breath and accent.

  They started to argue about

  my bar mitzvah,

  where it will be,

  when it will happen,

  and I felt my father

  shift in his chair until

  I finally slid down

  and sat on the floor

  beneath the table.

  Grandma reached beneath,

  took my hand,

  and led me to the kitchen.

  Why don’t you sit down?

  I’ll make you some oatmeal.

  I ate it, played with tiny

  sword letter openers.

  I could hear

  the voices

  rise and fall

  and mix together,

  angry or frustrated,

  a pot boiling over

  and simmering again.

  I ate the oatmeal.

  Ari, she said, smiling with hope,

  how will you keep the mitzvot?

  When I didn’t know what she meant,

  she told me that the mitzvot

  are our commandments,

  the good deeds we do

  and how we behave,

  honoring our parents,

  helping others,

  observing the Sabbath.

  I remember a time

  when we walked

  to the grocery store

  and a man with a torn

  jacket, his beard long

  and gray, asked my grandma

  for some food. I hid

  behind her while

  she handed him

  a five-dollar bill,

  and the loaf of challah

  we had just bought.

  The man said nothing

  and walked away.

  She stood, watching him go,

  then turned to me and whispered,

  You see, mitzvot. We do because we do.

  My Father Comes

  When we get back from the beach,

  my father is there.

  Finally, he says,

  sits up, his black hair

  curled in different directions.

  Come ’ere, kid.


  I feel small next to him.

  He listens as I tell him about 10 pounds.

  He smiles, makes it the biggest

  news in the world.

  I’m proud of you, he says.

  You look great.

  I ask him if he’s staying over.

  Just tonight, he says.

  At bedtime,

  I read and listen to

  the familiar beat of their voices,

  arguments in undulating rhythms

  of light and dark,

  his deep voice

  rolling out

  in a wave of

  reason, smooth

  and weighted.

  When they get quiet,

  I walk to get some water.

  He’s holding some papers,

  a stack of letters or something.

  Across the table,

  her eyes look out the window.

  It’s a silence I don’t understand.

  I pour a glass of water,

  but they don’t notice.

  On the top of the fridge

  is a red bag, shiny and full

  like a Mylar balloon.

  I saw it when I first came in.

  Doritos.

  Of course, he must have brought them,

  and why would he think about

  my diet?

  I wait silently in the kitchen

  until their voices start again.

  I reach for the bag.

  I feel a rush in my body,

  and in a moment

  I’m back in my room.

  I sit on the edge of my mat.

  The dim light of my reading lamp

  illuminates the red foil,

  the wedged chip,

  a perfect triangle

  of texture and salt.

  The bag sits between

  my legs, and I notice

  how the fat on my legs doesn’t seep

  out of my shorts as much,

  that my stomach feels small

  in my pajamas.

  For a moment, I imagine

  that the chips in this bag

  will bring it all back.

  I imagine that maybe

  I deserve it all back.

  I look into the bag.

  I think of Pick

  asking me who I am,

  look over at Lisa sleeping.

  I think of my before picture

  and how far I’ve come.

  I feel the sand in my toes,

  and the warm sun

  and ocean air.

  I’m desperate.

  I want to hold my diet book

  like holy scripture,

  to pray a spell of protection

  over my soul,

  but I don’t.

  Instead,

  I open the bag,

  feel the salt of the first chip

  settle on my tongue.

  The taste blocks the noise.

  I don’t stop

  until the sides

  have all been licked clean.

  July

  Promises

  The Diet Book promises that Four Beautiful Things will happen:

  1. I will be free from hunger.

  I still want ice cream all the time.

  2. I will notice an increase in well-being.

  I do feel better.

  3. I will notice the pounds dropping off.

  Let them drop into the abyss. Let them scream as they fall.

  4. I will experience a decrease in measurements that the tape measure can tell me about in detail.

  Will I still need to go to the big and tall shop?

  Then He Left

  When I get out of the shower,

  I hear the sliding metal

  of my father’s keys.

  I dry off,

  get dressed,

  and walk out to see him.

  Ari, he says.

  Sit down.

  His words

  are thick paste.

  He says he has to go away,

  get some money for the business.

  Things are tough.

  I’ll be back soon, Ari,

  but I have to go away for a while.

  Don’t worry, he says. I have a plan.

  I smile. Look at his eyes. Take a deep breath.

  I believe him. He lifts his duffel bag by the door,

  the keys to the Sunbird

  already in his

  hand.

  He leans over,

  kisses me on the forehead.

  I love you, you mensch,

  and he goes.

  July Fourth

  I

  Pick’s mom drops him off in the morning.

  We spend the day at the beach,

  and by sunset we sit on the roof.

  Me, Pick, Lisa

  position ourselves

  for the fireworks.

  The roof feels safe

  and far away from everything.

  We watch the cars

  in a radiant line

  from the mountain road

  shining into every beach lot.

  Families shift street to street,

  streamers, flags, sparklers,

  the occasional POP.

  We eat sunflower seeds,

  spit the shells into the dirt

  far below us.

  Pick spits a seed into the distance,

  looks straight ahead.

  I have to go to Australia, he says.

  What! I say. Why?

  It’s a family reunion, mate.

  He fakes an accent.

  I feel the summer suddenly shrink.

  How come you didn’t tell me? I ask.

  We have plans.

  He holds out his hands,

  folds them into fists.

  Because I didn’t want you to get mad.

  I understand what he means.

  I don’t like change.

  II

  The fireworks

  bloom above the cobalt sea.

  Pick and Lisa talk about Australia.

  Later, at the nursery,

  we look over the game,

  our pencils scratch paper.

  We draw a new class of robots

  that can shift their shapes,

  adapt to their environment.

  Lisa is taking pictures

  when Pick mumbles,

  I’m sorry I’m so mean to you.

  He looks away.

  That day, when we were packing,

  when you said you didn’t

  tell your parents about the bike path?

  I got mad because I thought

  we would have to hide it forever,

  or that you just didn’t trust me enough

  because I ran away.

  I wanted you to change

  so you could stop being so bad to yourself,

  but I’m the one who was afraid.

  Pick doesn’t look up when he says this.

  His eyes focus on a quadrant

  of the paper where he draws

  a giant metallic foot.

  I am quiet too.

  I just hated it. I hated them.

  Pick’s voice trails back

  into the past.

  He’s remembering,

  but the experience

  is lightning

  striking now.

  He doesn’t wipe his tears,

  lets each one spill into his mouth

  until they swirl with his words.

  With his pencil,

  he scratches a crude line

  along the center of the boxed page.

  We were riding. Just riding.

  What happened? Lisa asks.

  I forget that she doesn’t know.

  He traces the pencil along the line

  on the paper. He draws a circle

  around Dolan Avenue and an arrow

  to the Mill Valley/Sausalito bike path.

  His mind overflowing onto
the paper,

  he talks in pencil

  scratches and shaded images.

  I concentrate on his drawings,

  see it all in my mind.

  He draws an X halfway

  to Sycamore Avenue and stops.

  I should have done more,

  but I just kept riding.

  I let you down.

  I look at him over the table.

  I think of jokes

  but don’t say them.

  His body shakes,

  like he might break in half.

  It’s okay, I say.

  He shifts in his chair, grabs his pencil tight.

  He draws stick figures near the X.

  It’s not, he says through gritted teeth.

  It’s

  not okay.

  You … Suddenly fierce,

  he points the pencil at me, eraser first.

  He gets up, one hand in a fist.

  I stand up too.

  You

  should

  have

  done

  more …

  You

  just SAT THERE,

  while they did those things to you.

  HOW COULD YOU LET THEM?

  how could I let them??

  I get up, walk over to him.

  In my mind is the rhythm of some speech

  I will never give.

  I stare straight at him

  with sudden courage.

  I don’t know why, I say.

  I don’t know why I didn’t fight back.

  Maybe I should have. But I couldn’t.

  I don’t want to fight that way.

  Face flushed,

  Pick looks at me,

  red with anger and tears.

  Suddenly he grabs my shoulders

  with both hands,

  vibrates an inhuman growl,

  Why didn’t

  I

  do anything?

  His breath lingers at I.

  He’s desperate for an answer

  I can’t give him.

  I’m a coward! he shouts,

  lets go of my shoulders,

  his face steaming with guilt and rage.

  He rips the graph paper,

  tries to break the pencil,

  but it’s too small. He throws it instead.

  I want to think of a joke,

  or something wise

  about how we are all afraid,

  or some obscure fact about a chupacabra,

  about the game or the beach.

  I look at Lisa, but she’s quietly drawing.

  He walks around the room,

  then finally just sits,

  his arms folded over his knees.

  He mutters,