by Chris Baron
Good news!
There’s a gallery
on Hayes Street,
in the city.
My mother puts her phone down
and paints the scene with her hands.
They want to show my work.
The Lotus Keeper and Melinda,
some of the new paintings.
They even want me
to do some live exhibitions.
Lisa walks straight to Melinda
and whispers something into
her ear, makes a mean face.
Later, I turn the base of the sculpture
around so Melinda
can see the other side
of the gallery
for at least a little while
before she moves
to her new home.
One More Hike
One last morning,
we hike up the Dipsea Trail
toward Steep Ravine.
Not too far, just high enough
to see the ocean against the town,
the small buildings, and the long
stretch of sand against
the endless blue-green.
I don’t hate school, Lisa says,
but I wish I only had
Shapiro’s art classes.
I’m looking forward to those.
She asks me what I think.
I don’t know. English is fun,
and sometimes science, and maybe
I can play sports or something?
We walk in silence
for a while, and I remember
that Lisa doesn’t always go to school.
Do you think we’ll hang out?
I think in terms of worst-case scenario,
just in case.
Probably not, she says.
Silence.
We laugh.
She hits my arm, then hugs me quickly.
I’ll be around.
More silence.
How do you think you’ll feel that first day?
I don’t know, I say.
I kind of want people to be like, NO WAY!
We laugh more, look out at the Pacific.
What about, you know?
She means Frank and the boys from the bike path.
I don’t say anything. I don’t mention their names.
You know, Ari, she says, you really have changed.
Her eyes are so clear.
She looks out across
the water,
her mind far away,
to whatever happens next.
She laughs.
Didn’t the book say
to take an after picture?
Maybe you should,
even if it’s just to remember
this summer.
After Picture
We stand on the deck again,
in the same way we did
at the start of the summer.
Jorge walks in
and puts his
long arms around me and Lisa
while my mom takes the picture.
Lisa prints
it right away, smiles at me,
but I don’t look at it.
A Last Look
I look at the mirror
in the nursery bathroom
one last time.
There’s less of me,
but I’m not
an action hero.
I can still feel the slight
overhang of my belly on my shorts,
the dig of the elastic,
and the skin on the backs of my arms,
especially soft. I’ve gained
back a few pounds, but it’s okay.
So much less of me.
So much more of me too.
What would the diet doctor say?
Or my father,
who hasn’t really seen me
go through this change at all?
It doesn’t matter,
because I like myself.
All of myself.
Cryptozoologist,
mountain survivor,
boogie boarder,
someone with friends
who care about me.
I dig my feet into the warm sand,
Lisa next to me, laughing,
the spray of the ocean,
sudden and alive.
I look back toward the mountains.
I’ve been in there,
and I feel the ache
of my wet feet along the trails,
and out toward the sea,
in the horizon,
is the promise
of becoming
something more
than who I am now
or something else
that I don’t have to ever be again.
Dropping Lisa Off
When we reach Miller Avenue,
she takes my hand,
lifts it up to her forehead.
I don’t waaannnnt to say good-bye,
she cries, in her exaggerated, whiny voice.
We turn onto Throckmorton.
Lisa’s mom is standing outside,
smiling. She runs to the car,
opens the door.
We all get out
in a sea of hugs.
Lisa shows
her the paintings from the summer.
After a while, the Artist
takes Lisa by the arm,
and they walk away for a few moments
beneath the old redwoods.
There’s crying
and a few words not for any other ears,
and as they walk back,
Lisa’s head rests on the Artist’s shoulder.
Then Lisa hugs her tightly,
and the moms go off together
for a little while.
Inside Lisa’s room,
I stare at all the pictures
of Def Leppard,
Foo Fighters, dragons
and Pegasus, and warriors
we’ve drawn together.
I have a million questions
I want to ask her
about the future.
We make plans.
We’ll meet
before school
near the clock tower
by the flower beds.
She looks at me,
You know you will always be my friend,
even when I don’t make it to school.
Don’t forget. She leans in,
kisses me on the forehead.
I feel the perfect weight
of her hand on my neck.
I know,
I say.
Promise? she asks.
I really do.
On the way out, I hear her laughing as she yells out,
You should call Gretchen.
After Summer
Gretchen
We meet at
the vintage record store
in Larkspur.
I know it’s her
in a pea-green
military jacket,
striped leggings,
and brown boots.
It took me one hour
to decide what to wear,
my confidence a little
shaken by gaining back
a few pounds.
I try to find a perfect
combination
but end up with
jeans and a white
Hawaiian shirt
with green flowers.
Her hair is orange,
Pippi Longstocking
pigtails
beneath her fuzzy
black fedora.
She is so tall,
taller than me.
When I walk up to her,
she looks slowly over
and smiles.
Then, without even stopping,
she puts her long arms out
and hugs me right away.
Like, finally!
she says.
She holds up
Purple Rain.
You already have this, right?
But have you heard this?
She holds up “Blue Jean,”
an old David Bowie single.
We walk aisle to aisle,
looking through records,
holding the album covers up,
talking about every design,
how crazy and awesome
people look
or how much makeup
the singer wears.
Her freckles
really do fill up
her whole face.
I’m a full cup
of orange juice,
she tells me later.
We walk outside
and look at the other shops
and talk, and it’s just like
it was on the phone.
Better.
By the fountain,
after we drop in five pennies each
and talk about whether these
wishes really work,
she puts both hands on my shoulders.
So what do you think of me?
She’s not pushy, just funny,
nice, her smile contagious
with her huge teeth,
and warm eyes.
Good? I say.
Good? Whatever.
She laughs.
You’re totally cute, Ari.
The words spin
around my body.
I can’t remember anyone
ever saying this to me.
We walk randomly
until we see
her dad’s minivan.
He waves, and she smiles,
squeezes my hand,
and walks toward the car.
I watch her go,
and I can’t stop smiling,
But then halfway, she turns,
runs back.
She hugs me and whispers
in my ear,
Told you you’d like me.
She gets in the van,
waves through the window
as it drives away.
I wait in the warm afternoon
for my mother.
She’s right.
Later, inside the record jacket
I find a red piece
of paper with three little words
in black writing.
When I read them,
I hear her silly, happy voice saying,
Call me soon.
Tallit
I walk straight to the desk,
turn the snow globe over,
pull two saltwater taffies
from the bowl.
I’m sorry, Rabbi,
I didn’t get to practice much.
The rabbi shrugs,
disappointed, and stares at me.
He rubs his hand on his beard.
Ari, it’s not going to learn itself.
I make promises to study,
I say the prayers more boldly,
I tell the rabbi about the pond,
about dropping the book
into the water.
I tell him that I think
I am changing.
He listens closely to every word,
quietly nodding,
looking at me through
his glasses.
Twice a week, Ari?
Okay?
He asks me if I’m ready for school.
I think so, I say,
but I’m not sure.
In this moment,
I want to tell him
what happened
on the bike path,
but I don’t.
I want to ask
him if he thinks
that I have to fight
to be a man,
but I think I already
know the answer.
The rabbi walks to the wardrobe
in the corner of his study.
He hums a song under his breath,
his voice rising and falling
with every movement of his body.
He pulls a folded white
cloth from the top shelf,
brings it over to the chairs,
and unfolds it.
Piece by piece, he drapes
the wool garment, blue- and white-
and black-striped, over my shoulders.
This tallit is for you, Ari,
for when the time comes.
I feel the warmth of the cloth,
the perfect heaviness of the material,
like being watched over.
The rabbi makes sure
I have all the recordings
I need so I can practice.
He folds the tallit,
puts it back on the shelf.
He shakes my hand,
smiles. I will be back.
I ride my bike
as fast as I can
down the steep
San Francisco hills,
the fog and cool air
in my face,
prayers humming
on my lips.
First Day of School
We drive over the bridge.
I feel the magnetic pull of Shoreline Highway
as we pass the turnoff to Stinson,
but instead we go straight, toward school.
Yesterday, we went shopping.
I bought three pairs
of pants and one pair of ripped jeans.
34/32.
I wear the jeans
and a long-sleeved black T-shirt,
tan Converse All Stars,
and a new gray backpack.
On my right,
the bike path stretches
across the morning.
Herons fly
across the estuary.
Soon enough, I think,
I will be back on my bike.
I’m not sure if I’m any tougher
or if I’d do it any differently now.
I don’t know if I will tell
anyone else what happened,
or even if I should.
I think about how much
I wish Pick was here
too, but he’s still in Australia
until Christmas. We email a lot,
work on the game. But it’s not the same.
Mom puts her hand on mine.
Are you sure you want to take the bus home today?
Yes. I smile.
I’m so proud of you, Ari.
She hugs me, and I step
foot by foot out the door and
into a sea of drop-off cars.
It’s foggy but bright,
and everything is twice the speed.
I see Noah first thing.
His long, purple-striped rugby shirt
same as always.
Hey, Noah, I say.
He stops. Looks at me.
Whoa, he says, dude, you’re so tall!
Look at you.
Diana walks around the corner.
Ari! Youlooksogoodohmygodddddd.
Her smile makes me smile.
I can see others looking at me,
and I take it all in.
Then,
all of a sudden,
I see Frank walking up
from the parking lot.
I feel my shirt, loose
on my body, but I
still suck it in.
Habit.
He gets closer,
and I feel
my body tighten
in memory,
adrenaline like a fist.
Maybe I could stand up to him.
I get ready,
fists at my side,
but then he
just walks by me,
and that’s when I see it.
His eyes shift,
looking down and away,
the collar of his polo shirt turned up
trying to cover what looks like
a bad sunburn over
his whole face—
acne everywhere.
He stops and looks at me,
looks around at the campus.
He smiles a little,
but he mostly looks terrified.
Hey, um, Ari? He coughs. I’m sorry about
what happened. He doesn’t
look me in the eye.
I think of all the things I want to say,
should say,
but instead
I just say,
Okay.
That’s it. Frank lingers for a few seconds
like he might say something else,
but instead he just walks away.
Wow, Noah says,
talk about looking different.
I shake my head.
I can’t believe it.
But most of all,
it surprises me how many
people don’t notice,
because in my mind,
I had made this day about me,
when really it’s about all of us.
A new time, a new place,
new … us.
Friends No Matter What
Noah heads to woodshop,
his early elective,
and I remember the plan
to meet Lisa.
I walk up the stairs toward the base
of the clock tower near the flower beds.
Slowly the other students slip
away toward the first classes of the day.
I don’t see her,
and I remember
that she’s unpredictable
and it’s not her fault.
She doesn’t owe me anything.
I hear her voice,
reminding me
we are friends no matter what.
I wait there
near the flower beds,
the sun and the fog
pouring into the morning,
until the clock tower
sounds the second bell,
and when she doesn’t come,
I head to English.
The Phone Call
I run home from the bus stop.
I’ve had so many new ideas for the game.
I need to get back to it.
Plus, Gretchen said she
would call me on Thursday.
It’s Thursday.
The city is cold,
fall setting in all the way.
I zip up my jacket,
