loved.â
But I donât imagine, because I know Iâd never let something like that happen to me.
At twenty-one, on medical leave, I receive a letter from acollege friend. By now, mail seldom arrives for me, unless it contains a bill from a hospital or clinic. I take the letter from the kitchen, where my mother has handed it to me, and head toward the privacy of my bedroom. Crutching across the house leaves my arms and legs feeling as if the muscles are being pulled from the bone. Itâs winter, but Iâm wearing shorts because the scrape of fabric is unbearable against my shins. My mother has strategically placed a dining room chair in the hall, and I decide to stop and read the letter here, instead of taking the next fifteen steps to my bedroom, just in case I need those steps to get to the bathroom later. My days are divided up this way, a sequence of bargains and rationings. Do I shower in the morning and then rest until lunch time, or do I shower in the evening, when I can go directly to bed afterward? If I answer the phone in the kitchen, will I be stranded for an hour, for an afternoon?
The letter is short. My friend is angry with me, disgusted. This is the last time sheâll write.
âHow can you let this happen to yourself?â she says.
Â
Iâm the second-fastest kid at Lincoln Elementaryâonly Jimmy Borganhagen, who can do three hundred sit-ups and seventy-five push-ups, can beat me. In my mind, his ability to do sit-ups and push-ups has married his unbelievable speed, and I start doing sit-ups before I say my bedtime prayers, boy sit-ups, my feet hooked beneath mybed. I do push-ups, too; I can even manage a clap in between. I eat lots of bananas, because Iâve heard this is what weight lifters do.
âFeel my muscle,â I tell my brother, my mother, my best friend, Tabitha, who I wrestle to the ground every so often, just because I can. In the kitchen, while my mother is at work, my brother and I take turns mixing concoctions of vinegar, baking soda, pickle juice, chocolate syrupâthe one who canât swallow the otherâs bitter medicine loses. We judge each other, our friends, our cousins by one standard: toughness. When Mike jumps off the hood of the car, I jump off its roof. When he does the same, I pull the ladder out of the garage, shimmy up the side of the house, and fling myself into the side yard, where the grass is longer, softer. Summer mornings, we both chase after the garbage truck on our bicycles, but Iâm the one who gets close enough to high-five the sanitation workerâs outstretched hand. âNo fair,â Mike says, and heâs right. Iâm two and a half years older. Taller. Stronger.
âThat will change,â my father says, but heâs been saying that since the day my mother brought Mike home from the hospital, his head like an overripe tomato, wrapped in a brilliant blue blanket. I hated the way my father immediately started calling him Tiger. âCall me Tiger,â I insisted, but my nickname was already Pumpkin, which I hated. Pumpkins werenât tough. Pumpkins got their guts carvedout, then sat in peopleâs windows, rotting slowly, their faces caving in on themselves.
Iâm no pumpkin. At school, Bonnie Adelskyâa big girl with breasts, who has been held backâarranges a wrestling match between me and a junior high school boy. We meet behind the teacherâs parking lot late in the afternoon. While heâs busy protecting his ballsâas if I caredâI throw myself at his ankles, and as soon as Iâve got him on the ground, I clamp his narrow waist between my thighs and squeeze until he shrieks. I love knowing I could snap his spine like a potato chip, and then, when he starts to cry, I love letting him go. We jump to our feet, and our eyes lock, dazzled, before I take off running, slaloming parked cars, his pack of friends just a clenched fist behind as I bolt across the
But I donât imagine, because I know Iâd never let something like that happen to me.
At twenty-one, on medical leave, I receive a letter from acollege friend. By now, mail seldom arrives for me, unless it contains a bill from a hospital or clinic. I take the letter from the kitchen, where my mother has handed it to me, and head toward the privacy of my bedroom. Crutching across the house leaves my arms and legs feeling as if the muscles are being pulled from the bone. Itâs winter, but Iâm wearing shorts because the scrape of fabric is unbearable against my shins. My mother has strategically placed a dining room chair in the hall, and I decide to stop and read the letter here, instead of taking the next fifteen steps to my bedroom, just in case I need those steps to get to the bathroom later. My days are divided up this way, a sequence of bargains and rationings. Do I shower in the morning and then rest until lunch time, or do I shower in the evening, when I can go directly to bed afterward? If I answer the phone in the kitchen, will I be stranded for an hour, for an afternoon?
The letter is short. My friend is angry with me, disgusted. This is the last time sheâll write.
âHow can you let this happen to yourself?â she says.
Â
Iâm the second-fastest kid at Lincoln Elementaryâonly Jimmy Borganhagen, who can do three hundred sit-ups and seventy-five push-ups, can beat me. In my mind, his ability to do sit-ups and push-ups has married his unbelievable speed, and I start doing sit-ups before I say my bedtime prayers, boy sit-ups, my feet hooked beneath mybed. I do push-ups, too; I can even manage a clap in between. I eat lots of bananas, because Iâve heard this is what weight lifters do.
âFeel my muscle,â I tell my brother, my mother, my best friend, Tabitha, who I wrestle to the ground every so often, just because I can. In the kitchen, while my mother is at work, my brother and I take turns mixing concoctions of vinegar, baking soda, pickle juice, chocolate syrupâthe one who canât swallow the otherâs bitter medicine loses. We judge each other, our friends, our cousins by one standard: toughness. When Mike jumps off the hood of the car, I jump off its roof. When he does the same, I pull the ladder out of the garage, shimmy up the side of the house, and fling myself into the side yard, where the grass is longer, softer. Summer mornings, we both chase after the garbage truck on our bicycles, but Iâm the one who gets close enough to high-five the sanitation workerâs outstretched hand. âNo fair,â Mike says, and heâs right. Iâm two and a half years older. Taller. Stronger.
âThat will change,â my father says, but heâs been saying that since the day my mother brought Mike home from the hospital, his head like an overripe tomato, wrapped in a brilliant blue blanket. I hated the way my father immediately started calling him Tiger. âCall me Tiger,â I insisted, but my nickname was already Pumpkin, which I hated. Pumpkins werenât tough. Pumpkins got their guts carvedout, then sat in peopleâs windows, rotting slowly, their faces caving in on themselves.
Iâm no pumpkin. At school, Bonnie Adelskyâa big girl with breasts, who has been held backâarranges a wrestling match between me and a junior high school boy. We meet behind the teacherâs parking lot late in the afternoon. While heâs busy protecting his ballsâas if I caredâI throw myself at his ankles, and as soon as Iâve got him on the ground, I clamp his narrow waist between my thighs and squeeze until he shrieks. I love knowing I could snap his spine like a potato chip, and then, when he starts to cry, I love letting him go. We jump to our feet, and our eyes lock, dazzled, before I take off running, slaloming parked cars, his pack of friends just a clenched fist behind as I bolt across the
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