A Trick of the Light

by Lois Metzger

  Mike wishes she would stop shouting. But you have to admire her passion. Too many people have no fire.

  Amber (lowering her voice): “Angelina Jolie has a tattoo. Do you know what it says?”

  Mike: “Uh, no.”

  Ambers says something in Latin and Mike asks her to repeat it.

  Amber: “Quod me nutrit me destruit. ‘What nourishes me destroys me.’”

  Mike: “What does that mean?”

  Amber (distractedly): “I should get a tattoo. Right where my mom could see it.”

  A woman ahead of them is asking the cashier where the 2-percent cottage cheese is. The cashier doesn’t know.

  Amber: “Aisle four. Halfway down, opposite the frozen waffles. If you hit the frozen vegetables, you’ve gone too far.”

  The cashier looks at Mike. He’s dying inside, wondering if the cashier thinks Amber is his girlfriend. Honestly, he shouldn’t worry so much about what other people think.

  Outside, Amber scribbles something on a piece of paper.Hone>

  Amber: “Here’s my number. If you have any questions about food or anything, you can call me.” She pulls at Mike’s arm. “Hey, let’s move. I don’t like the way that guy is staring at me.”

  Mike: “What guy?”

  Amber: “Don’t look!”

  Mike sees a guy with a German shepherd.

  Mike: “He’s just walking his dog.”

  Amber: “You’re not a girl. You don’t know these things.” She leads Mike around the corner. “So, you know, call anytime, even if it’s the middle of the night.”

  Mike: “Your boyfriend might get jealous.”

  Amber: “Boyfriend? Oh, Eddie’s very mature, very understanding.”

  Mike: “Yeah, well, I’d never call you in the middle of the night.”

  CHAPTER 12

  AS MIKE LEAVES SCHOOL ONE DAY, HIS BASEBALL coach practically blocks his path.

  Now, sports are great, generally, but baseball is far too sedentary. This is why baseball can no longer be part of Mike’s life, though Mike doesn’t seem ready to let go of it yet. Mike likes Coach Jim because he’s nice to all the players, unlike other baseball coaches, who treat everyone who isn’t a pitcher or a home-run hitter like a second-class citizen. Last spring Mike played right field, though he wanted to play center—more balls get hit out there. Mike likes the outfield because he doesn’t have to think much. He only has to catch and throw, catch and throw, in his own private piece of the world.

  It’s not your world anymore. Move on.

  Coach Jim: “Whoa, hold up, Mike!”

  Mike (trying to get past him): “Coach.”

  But it turns out you can’t get past Coach Jim. He’s a big guy with a bald shiny head, and he wears the same thing in hot weather or cold—sweatpants and a zipped-up hoodie.

  Coach Jim: “Not so fast. Winter workouts start in December. Will I be seeing you?”

  To Mike, December sounds about a million years away.

  Coach Jim: “You’re getting in shape, right?”

  Mike: “What? Do you think I’m fat?”

  Coach Jim (quickly): “No!”

  Much too quickly.

  Coach Jim: “You look great, kid.”

  Mike thinks, He’s never told me that before.

  You can’t trust him.

  Coach Jim: “I just don’t want you to get injured at the beginning of the season. Some kids don’t do anything all fall, then they do too much, too soon. I want you ready, you get me?”

  He’s backpedaling.

  Coach Jim: “Did you hear that Eric smashed his growth plate? One of our best pitchers, out for the season.”

  Now he’s changing the subject.

  Mike: “Well. I’m gonna start running.”

  This just popped into Mike’s head—not my idea, but I couldn’t have come up with a better one myself.

  Coach Jim: “Make sure you stretch before and after.” He gives Mike a strange look, like he’s thinking about something he’s not going to say out loud. Instead he says, “Don’t do too much.”

  Mike loves running laps. He had no idea—it always looked dumb, just running around in circles. But he discovers it’s the closest thing to flying without leaving the ground. He runs every day after school now. He never thought much of Belle Heights Park—just a bunch of trees, brownish grass, and splintery benches—but now he sees how perfect it is. Each lap around is an exact half mile, so he knows how much he’s running. Some guys hang out in the park singing, playing guitar. They’re off-key, but so what? They’re full of energy. Mike breathes in the sharp air and fills his lungs. His head is so clear. Nothing bothers him—nothing. If he ever thinks about his dad and his adolescent girlfriend, or his mom in the tub, or Tamio, or Valerie, he shoves those images aside and leaves them on the pavement where he can run right past them. They’re the emotional equivalent of roadkill.

  Mike smiles as he runs.

  You can’t control those things. You can control this. Your body, your mind.

  When Mike goes home, he looks in the mirror. The last time he spent this many hours in front of a mirror, it was to practice speech exercises. He was just a kid, alone at school, the little disc jockey. Now he doesn’t have to say a word. He only has to listen.

  You can be strong. You can be fit. Strong body, strong mind.

  Infinitely strong.

  Mike can feel his legs tightening. His stomach seems firmer.

  Run two extra laps tomorrow.

  Mike’s stomach starts to growl.

  It’s a good sound. It means you’re on your way.

  He knows this. He can feel it.

  At school he gets a compliment.

  Ruby L: “Mike, you been working out?”

  Mike: “Yeah.”

  Ruby L: “It shows.”

  Now Mike is grateful he doesn’t have any classes with Tamio. It makes it a lot easier to avoid him. And after school Tamio is busy with soccer. Mike has lunch with Amber every day. He doesn’t see it as a boy and girl eating together, though of course that’s exactly what it is. Mike has acknowledged that Amber tells him what he needs to know, though he could give her a little more credit. She is a friend, too.

  Amber: “You’ve been storing up unhealthy levels of fat in your body—for years. You’ve got to burn through those reserves.”

  It reminds Mike of something he heard in an art elective, what Michelangelo said about carving the statue of David—he simply removed all the marble that wasn’t David.

  Against my better judgment, Mike tries to get Amber to watch a movie with him. He mentions some murderous skeletons in Jason and the Argonauts, one of Ray Harryhausen’s films.

  Mike: “How do you kill skeletons when they’re already dead? You lure them off a cliff, that’s how.”

  Amber: “Can we please stop talking about this? It’s really boring.”

  She knows it’s a waste of time.

  Amber: “Why don’t you just watch this stuff with Tamio?”

  Mike: “Well, we’re not really friends anymore.”

  Amber: “Oh? Why not?”

  Mike (shrugs): “We’re different now, I guess.”

  Amber: “I know what you mean. But that wouldn’t happen with me and Anna.” She sticks out her wrist. She has on a red bracelet. “See? Anna gave me this. It symbolizes our eternal friendship.”

  Something else that’s wonderful about Amber. Her undying loyalty.

  CHAPTER 13

  THE HOME SITUATION IS GOOD. BETTER, ANYWAY. Mike’s mom, sleeping and soaking; Mike’s dad, living out his midlife crisis; Mike is left alone, blissfully alone. He eats what he wants, when he wants to; he runs; he does crunches and push-ups in his room. He does all the chores without having to answer to anyone. This privacy is rich beyond compare.

  Until one night in October.

  Mom: “Mike, you’re thin.”

  She sounds like she hasn’t seen him in weeks. Well, she hasn’t. Of course it’s wildly unfair of her to re-enter the picture
just to stir up trouble.

  Mom: “Are you eating enough?”

  Mike (handling it): “Definitely.” He’s thinking about how Amber said your body is a machine that you can train to run more efficiently and reprogram to respond to food differently. The less you eat, the less you have to eat. Not that Mike tells this to his mom. She wouldn’t get it.

  Mom: “Has it been… is it hard for yo

  Why this sudden burst of attention?

  Mike: “I’m fine.”

  He looks a lot better than she does, now that chaos masters her. She’s in an old bathrobe. Her color isn’t good, she’s pale and ashy, and her eyes are puffy. Anyway Mike is more than fine—he’s busy and productive. Getting in shape, Mike thinks, is like my job.

  A full-time job, 24/7.

  Mike finds that amusing.

  Mom: “What’s so funny?”

  Mike: “Huh?”

  Mom: “You were just laughing.”

  Mike: “I guess you could call it an inside joke.”

  Good one.

  Mom: “It’s been quite an adjustment. When a marriage ends, it’s like a death. The death of happily-ever-after, you know?”

  Mike: “I guess so.” He’s ready to go to his room, shut the door, turn on some music, work out. He wants the mirror to show him progress.

  Mom: “I can’t help feeling like… well, Grandma Celia always told me I’d be a failure. With the separation and everything, I feel like I’m proving her right.”

  Mike (trying to make sense out of what she just said): “You’re not a failure, Mom. You were part of something that failed. But that’s, you know, not you.” He wonders if this is coming out right. They used to talk, he and his mom; sometimes it took a while for Mike to express himself accurately, but he always tried—

  Just forget it. You should have a flat line going down your chest. Can you picture how that will look?

  Mom: “I dream about Grandma Celia. She’s sitting in a chair. She won’t look up or answer me. She’s silent, which is all I ever wanted when she was alive, but in the dream I’m begging her to talk to me.” Mike sees the whites of her eyes, below the green circles. “She wasn’t a very good mother to me. I’m not a very good mother to you, am I? I’ve been so unavailable.”

  Mike: “It’s fine.”

  Mom: “It’s not.”

  Do you really have to listen to this?

  Mike: “Mom, I’ve got stuff to do—”

  Mom: “Oh, don’t mind me. You go ahead.”

  Mike looks in the mirror. His abs are getting so tight! He does slow push-ups, one leg on top of the opposite ankle. Yesterday he did fifteen. Today he does five more. But something’s bugging him. His mom, when he left the room. She was crying.

  Nothing to worry about. You look after yourself. She can look after herself. Everything in its right place.

  CHAPTER 14

  MIKE HAS A GLORIOUS RUN, ONE OF THOSE RUNS WHERE everything comes together beautifully—the rhythm of arms and legs, the way he can taste the cool air at the back of his throat, how his feet barely brush the ground. He is a joy to behold.

  As soon as Mike comes home, however, he smells it. His mom is cooking dinner.

  Mike: “Mom, what are you doing?”

  Mom: “I’m making shepherd’s pie. Your favorite.”

  When Mike was a child, maybe. Not now. Shepherd’s pie—chopped lamb and peas with buttery mashed potatoes on top. What’s she trying to do to him?

  Mike: “Why are you doing this?”

  Mom: “You need some home-cooked meals.”

  At the dinner table, she puts a mountain-sized slab on his plate. The smell of it, heavy and cloying… Mike just sits there.

  Mom: “What’s wrong?”

  Don’t eat that, don’t eat that, don’t eat that.

  Mike: “I’m not hungry.”

  This is an occasion—Mike’s first lie. Sure, he’s hungry, but he’s learning to see beyond it. It’s a skill like anything else.

  Mom: “Your stomach is growling.”

  Mike: “That’s because I drank water after my run. That can make your stomach growl.”

  Another lie. He’s pretty convincing, too. He wonders if he should feel guilty about lying.

  Lying can be necessary. It can protect you. What’s there to feel guilty about?

  Mom: “Just eat, already.”

  Mike’s heart pounds in his chest.

  Mike: “I had some pizza on the way home from school.”

  Mom: “I thought you just came from a run.”

  Mike: “It was some kid’s birthday after school. There was cake.”

  Mom: “Which is it, Mike?”

  Mike: “Eric. He broke his growth plate. He’s a pitcher who can throw a seventy-nine-mile-per-hour fastball, and he’s out for the season.”

  Mom: “What?”

  Mike is confused. He thought his mom was asking him whose birthday it was. Now he realizes she meant, did he go to a birthday party or did he run? He’s not a very good liar yet. He needs practice. He looks down at the blob of food on his plate. He can’t imagine putting that in his stomach.

  If you eat that, you’ll get sick. Tell her you feel sick already.

  Mike: “I’m sick.”

  Mom: “Now you’re sick? Just eat it!”

  Mike takes a bite. Immediately he feels dizzy and bloated.

  See what happens when you don’t listen? Call Amber. She’ll know what to do.

  Mike: “I have to make a call.”

  Mom: “In the middle of dinner?”

  Mike: “I’m working on a physics project with Amber Alley. She’s going to the library tonight—”

  Mom: “I didn’t think kids went to the library anymore. They just go online.”

  Mike: “Mr. Clayton is very old-fashioned. He wants us to look stuff up in books.”

  Mom: “Libraries aren’t open at this hour.”

  Mike: “Mr. Clayton arranged for a branch to stay open late.”

  Already Mike’s better at lying. He enjoys how he can invent a kind of parallel universe—physics projects that don’t exist, old-fashioned teachers, libraries that stay open late. “So I need to catch Amber before she leaves the house.”

  Mom (slowly): “Amber Alley. Wasn’t she the one you did that butterfly thing with?”

  Mike (surprised): “Yeah—you remember that?” He’s thinking it’s kind of nice that she did.

  Don’t be fooled. She’s not on your side. Look what she’s making you eat. Now call Amber.

  Mike goes to his room and calls Amber.

  Amber answers on the first ring, almost as if she was waiting for the call.

  Amber: “Hi, Mike.”

  Mike: “My mom just cooked this thing with meat and potatoes and butter. She’s just sitting there, waiting for me to eat it.”

  Amber: “Did you eat it yet?”

  Mike: “One bite.”

  Amber: “Okay, that’s not so bad. Just eat five bites in total. Smush the food around on your plate. Keep count, though, and don’t go over.”

  Mike: “Why five?”

  Amber: “My friend Anna told me it’s a good number—it makes you look like you’re eating more than you actually are.”

  Five. The number of fingers on your hand. It’s your own version of the right-hand rule.

  Amber: “But you need to do more. Go to Food-A-Rama after school, buy some extra food to cook and throw out.”

  Mike: “What? Why?”

  Amber: “To make it look like you’re eating during the day. That way, if they’re watching you, you can get away with eating less at night.”

  Mike thinks of the homeless guy, who needs to beg to eat, and the fact that Amber’s telling Mike to buy food and purposely throw it away.

  Mike: “Isn’t that a waste?”

  Amber: “It’s the price to pay for privacy.”

  Exactly.

  Amber: “Buy heavy, filling foods that are easy to make. Nothing diet or low fat. Macaroni and cheese, cassero
les, creamy soups, Hungry-Man dinners. After school prepare the food and even put a plate in the sink with food scraped off. Be sure to take a fork with some food on it and smooth your lips over it, giving it that ‘after eating’ look. This girl I know, she forgot the fork, and her mom caught her.”

  Mike thinks it’s a good thing he made money this summer, even if he’s going to spend it on food he won’t eat.

  Amber: “At dinner, between the five bites, put food in a napkin on your lap. Throw that in the garbage when you’re done. If your mom starts looking in the garbage—”

  Mike: “That’s gross. She wouldn’t do that.”

  Amber: “Don’t be so sure. Anyway, you can put food in a Ziploc freezer bag, the kind with the zipper, and throw the food away once you get outside. Too bad you don’t have a dog. I know this girl—her dog would eat all her food for her. Except her dad got suspicious when he saw the dog sitting there every night at dinner, right at her feet. What about your dad? Is he giving you a hard time, too?”

  Mike hasn’t even told Tamio.

  It’s none of Tamio’s business.

  He thinks, Why should I tell Amber?

  Why shouldn’t you? Amber is a real friend.

  Mike (with a sigh): “My dad moved out. He got a girlfriend. She’s practically young enough to—”

  Amber: “You’re so lucky! One less pair of eyes on you at home.”

  Mike pushes the shepherd’s pie around on his plate and puts piles along the edges. It looks like a clock face. He eats bites at two, six, eight, and ten o’clock (skipping the bites at twelve and four because of the one he ate before he called Amber). In between, he puts food in a napkin on his lap.

  Mike: “That was really good.”

  Mom (disappointed): “You used to have more helpings. Except for the peas, of course, which you picked out one by one—”

  Mike: “I’ll have more later. I like it cold.” More lies. Easy as pie, so to speak.

  His mom does the dishes and laundry that night for the first time in forever, and even cleans up after Mighty Joe Young too. Mike wonders why she’s doing better, then goes to his room and does fifty crunches and the thirty push-ups. He stands before the mirror. He looks at himself closely, studying every inch, every pore. He used to think he was crazy for doing this, but now he wonders, If I am crazy, do I even care?