All of Me Read online

  I was mad at myself.

  I took it out on you.

  I walk over,

  sit down next to him,

  pull out two fresh sheets

  of graph paper,

  and slowly I start

  filling in squares

  until he starts to do it too.

  Bigfoot Versus Yeti

  Later that night,

  on my sleeping mat,

  I stare at the darkened shapes

  in the old wooden room,

  and it hits me, the why of it.

  A clear thought like starlight,

  the kind that only comes

  after something tough happens.

  I click on the flashlight,

  dig around for a marker,

  pull an old picture off the wall,

  and start to sketch.

  I draw a bad picture of Bigfoot:

  brown fur, giant feet,

  long arms and longer teeth.

  Pick, wake up and look at this picture.

  He makes a noise, and I go again.

  Bigfoot or yeti, Pick? Look.

  And it’s like this for a while,

  me holding up my Bigfoot picture,

  asking him to decide if it’s

  Bigfoot or a yeti.

  Pick whispers, in a sleepy

  yawn, That’s Bigfoot?

  I laugh. What if I tell you

  it’s a yeti?

  What? Pick says.

  It’s a yeti, I say.

  It’s Bigfoot, he says.

  Look at the brown fur.

  Everyone knows yetis have white fur.

  It’s a yeti, I say. A yeti. Yeti.

  Yeti. Maybe it’s a southern yeti.

  Maybe it’s the summer. Yeti all the way.

  How can you know? You don’t.

  Fine! he yells, defeated. Yeti.

  NO! I shout.

  It’s Bigfoot!

  He looks confused,

  sleepy in the dull light.

  Do you get it? I say.

  Everyone thinks the yeti

  and Bigfoot are the same,

  but they are completely

  different creatures!

  If you call something a name enough times,

  maybe you just accept it.

  Everyone knows that the yeti

  is found in Arctic climates, the Himalayas.

  He’s the Abominable Snowman.

  Bigfoot is a Sasquatch, native to North America!

  Everyone knows that they are different creatures,

  but they just make them the same

  because they don’t even TRY

  to look at who they REALLY are.

  Fine, he grumbles, fine. Can I sleep now?

  and drops down to his pillow.

  I let people call me names

  because that’s what

  they’ve always done.

  I let them make me into who I am.

  Some of the biggest lies I ever told

  were the ones I told myself.

  I’m too fat

  I’m not good enough

  They will never like me

  I don’t have to accept that everyone

  else says that Bigfoot is a yeti,

  when I know the truth.

  Each animal is its own self.

  There’s a possibility of a different

  truth. Maybe I can be someone different

  when I wake up.

  Not Bigfoot or a yeti.

  Maybe it isn’t even that I want to only lose weight.

  Maybe I want to find the real me.

  Pick

  We drop Pick off at the Dolan house,

  say hello and good-bye

  to his parents.

  He gives me

  his manila folder,

  his graph paper,

  an envelope full

  of drawings.

  Take these, he says.

  Work on Alcatraz Base while I’m gone.

  It’s the starting point for the players.

  Make it solid.

  I promise I will.

  Later, Pick! I tell him.

  Have fun flying

  a million hours

  to Australia.

  Watch out for the bunyips!

  People always leave.

  At the bottom of the stairs,

  one of the slats on the railing

  is slightly broken, so it snaps

  if you touch it as you walk by.

  This time

  down the stairs,

  I break

  the whole piece

  right off.

  She Doesn’t See It

  I don’t see it, you know?

  At the breakfast table,

  I’m eating eggs and cheese.

  Lisa is eating toast.

  She tries to eat what I eat,

  but she tells me that sometimes

  a body just wants some toast.

  In my silence,

  she gives me more words,

  quiet little gifts

  that hit the right places.

  No, I’m serious, I don’t get it, she says,

  the whole fat thing.

  I mean, I understand

  how you might feel bad

  when other kids are idiots,

  but why do you let it bother you?

  She pauses.

  I look down at my eggs.

  So what if there’s more of you?

  I love all her words.

  They have so much power.

  She is listening,

  paying attention,

  like a friend should.

  She doesn’t cancel how I feel,

  dismiss it

  or wrap it up

  in a different way.

  She lets my pain be real to her too,

  but she also makes

  me feel strong, like what others

  say doesn’t matter at all.

  Lisa spreads gobs of butter on her toast,

  lifts the knife, and smiles.

  No carbs, right?

  We laugh.

  I stare at the toast

  for a long, long time.

  I imagine the crunch

  of bread in my teeth.

  How can someone

  never have bread again?

  This can’t go on forever.

  Long, Good Days

  Days stretch,

  yawning dogs

  with straightening backs.

  We swim under the sun.

  We don’t care who we are.

  Today is every day

  and tomorrow.

  If I could stop time here,

  I would pull the cold

  handle of the moon

  to my face,

  order it to

  shift its weight

  and make

  everything

  a steady ocean.

  Baby Huey

  We walk back from the beach,

  the sunset behind us.

  Lisa and I are laughing.

  Jorge hums,

  carries his boogie board

  on top of his head.

  Ahead of us at the crosswalk

  of the last parking lot,

  beneath a tall redwood,

  two older boys are drinking

  out of coffee mugs.

  Bare-chested, shirts

  tied around their waists,

  they laugh loudly

  when they see us.

  They stare at Lisa,

  her shoulders back, blond hair

  falling over her blue bikini.

  Beautiful.

  She has told me over and over

  that it doesn’t matter.

  Silly boys, she always says. Just all silly boys.

  I hope they don’t say anything,

  but the air is too heavy

  for silence,

  and the words

  creep out

  between
/>   the sounds

  of the cars driving by.

  What’s up, Baby Huey?

  They are looking at Lisa,

  but they are talking

  to me.

  Way to go, Baby Huey. They nod, laugh,

  and the blond one comes behind me.

  I try to ignore him,

  but he’s too close.

  When I turn,

  he is imitating

  my side-to-side walk.

  Why don’t you guys leave us alone!

  Lisa says without even looking.

  Baby Huey’s got a girrrrrlfriend.

  How can it be

  that just a few seconds ago

  everything was perfect?

  Jorge asks them to stop.

  They call him a beanpole.

  When we get to a stop sign,

  the cars are climbing away from Stinson,

  a long line east on Shoreline Highway.

  What did it look like

  to the family in the white Suburban

  or to that older couple

  in the red convertible?

  We’re just

  grains of sand,

  stepped on

  or wiped off,

  washed away.

  I tell myself the familiar

  things:

  Ride it out. Ignore them.

  Let the voices fade.

  They’re not going to hurt you.

  But I remember the bike path,

  feel the bruises all over my body.

  The boys keep walking

  next to us until finally

  Lisa stomps her feet.

  Her voice is shrill.

  You are so unoriginal. Just go away!

  They step back.

  The dark-haired boy

  looks down,

  puts his face in his shirt,

  takes a long breath,

  then looks at his friend.

  Come on, man.

  He waves his shirt

  toward the road

  in a gesture of retreat

  or surrender.

  He looks at Lisa,

  whispers something.

  Cars idle in the dusk.

  The tide is coming in.

  C’mon, leave the kids alone,

  the dark-haired one says.

  The blond one laughs.

  Later, Baby Huey.

  Later, a-holes! Lisa shouts.

  Jorge hoists the boogie board

  back to the top of his head.

  I walk as straight as I can.

  Later, on the sleeping mats,

  I slam my face into my pillow.

  I keep seeing it all in my head.

  Not just today. All the days.

  I try to put everything into the pillow,

  crying, laughing, like I’m going crazy.

  Lisa walks over to me and kneels down,

  puts her hand on my back.

  Don’t listen to them.

  Don’t listen.

  Robots

  In the morning,

  I’m still thinking

  about the walk back

  from the beach.

  I decide to work on the game

  to get my mind off things.

  I take out graph paper

  from our game-creation supplies.

  I squint my eyes

  at the paper,

  tiny boxes edged together,

  turn them invisible,

  sketch robots

  to scale.

  First I draw a car:

  four boxes long,

  two boxes high.

  A truck:

  six boxes long

  three boxes high.

  And then the guardian robot,

  five boxes,

  its muscular metal leg

  the fortified steel frame,

  the housing for the pilot,

  the cockpit in the helmet,

  all rise twenty boxes high.

  One metallic arm

  reaches out

  nine boxes toward the square sun (four boxes).

  In the distance,

  the guardian robots

  watch over the bridge,

  steel plates

  against their

  nuclear hearts.

  cO-lec-tOrs

  The next day, back at the beach,

  the water is perfect,

  and we don’t see those boys again.

  Sun-beaten and saltwater-bleached,

  we return to the nursery before the sun sets.

  A man in a silver shirt

  shines near a woman in light blue.

  They wear sunglasses inside,

  lean on the counter,

  turning pages

  of print portfolios,

  talking low.

  Lisa turns to me. Who are they?

  I nod and whisper,

  with a long o sound,

  cO-lec-tOrs.

  Lisa nods, smiles a little.

  Well, she says, pursing her lips.

  I seeee.

  My mother

  glides in

  holding a pink bottle,

  champagne and glasses.

  She talks as she pours.

  The foam bubbles up and over,

  and she wipes the counter

  in one stylish movement.

  She believes that champagne

  is the drink of a queen,

  sophisticated, transformative.

  We sit in the courtyard near Melinda,

  watch the feral beach cats walk

  the top of the fence.

  The collectors ask questions.

  The Artist answers,

  disjointed and familiar phrases,

  names of sculptures:

  The Ice Priest is a reincarnation of the Mother Spirit.

  The Lotus Keeper is the guardian of the sacred flower.

  There is an opening in the head of the creature

  for the life force to come and go as it pleases.

  More champagne.

  She clears her throat, signals us

  to get salami and crackers.

  In the back, we pull Ritz from boxes

  and arrange them in a semicircle

  on a floral platter.

  We build a cheese tower,

  place salami in a red sea around it.

  I fold cheese squares and salami into my mouth

  with my left hand. With my right,

  I hold a cracker to my nose.

  I can feel the golden flakiness and crunch

  on my tongue.

  The woman smiles.

  We are interested in the entire collection.

  My mother shakes her head in disbelief.

  This is what she’s been waiting for.

  They talk for a long time.

  Later,

  the Artist walks them to the gate.

  She smiles, closes it behind them.

  The sun is down now.

  Did they buy it? I ask.

  No, Ari, they did not. She sighs.

  But they might? She puts her

  hands on my head.

  I’m taller than her now,

  but I still fit in her hands.

  It’s not that simple, Ari.

  She breathes in and exhales words with no air.

  Your father should be here.

  He does the business. Closes the deals.

  Her body moves past me.

  I try to think of excuses for him,

  but there aren’t any.

  Headlights of cars

  filter through the gate.

  I watch the soulless

  face of the Lotus Keeper.

  His eyes are closed,

  his cracked terra-cotta hands

  domed over

  his perfect clay flower.

  She’s right.

  He should

  be here.

  Two Champagne Bottles

  Half-full,
<
br />   pink and bubbling,

  cheese tower, salami,

  rising under the moon,

  the Artist asleep in the back room.

  The gate to the outside world is locked.

  Lisa takes my hand.

  Champagne, on average,

  holds between three and twenty grams of carbohydrates.

  But I am not thinking about The Diet Book.

  I am thinking about Lisa,

  still in her navy-blue bikini, white

  button-down shirt over her shoulders.

  We are sprites in the dark kitchen.

  I hold a glass near my nose,

  watch bubbles squeeze, pop,

  and explode into my nostrils.

  I stare at the pinkish liquid.

  Lisa stands on the other side of the counter.

  Cheers, she says,

  holds her glass toward me in the air.

  She is giving me something that is just for us.

  She smiles. Her lips form around the edge.

  Drinks are not new for her.

  Once, the doctors told Lisa she should never drink,

  that she might get sick like her mother.

  I drink.

  It burns.

  I cough.

  The bubbles jam my throat.

  I hold it down until it turns

  into pops of laughter,

  our hands over our mouths,

  champagne on the counter,

  on the floor. I feel my fingertips,

  like they are separate from my body.

  We try to stay quiet, pour glass after glass.

  Lisa can drink it so fast. I take one sip at a time.

  We laugh until we knock the salami and cheese

  to the floor. We scramble to the far side

  of the counter. Did we wake her?

  I hold my breath, but trying not to laugh

  makes it harder. We huddle close,

  her hands on my shoulders,

  now my knees,

  her blond hair

  in my hair now,

  and she looks me in my eyes.

  The fire, the champagne, the fear makes me numb

  until I feel her grip, close above my knee,

  and I squirm, tickled into uselessness,

  but she doesn’t stop.

  Her hands are on my body.

  I feel her fingers climb beneath my shirt,

  reach over my love handles, onto my stomach.

  No one has ever touched my stomach.

  For a moment, I feel shame like cold water,

  and I turn on my side. She doesn’t stop,