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.

Books: 1984; Ogre, Ogre; Harry Potter books;

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,