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.
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.