She hugs my mom and me

and then her daughter.

Her body is strong,

her hair soaked

from a shower.

She smells like medicine

and daisies.

Ari! she says, and she runs her hand

over my body like I am a statue.

She puts her hand on my stomach

and under my chin.

You look so goood!

Her o’s roll the long way.

I try not to shrink back,

to feel and believe the words.

Her face wants to be beautiful,

like she is from some other world.

Her hands, long and thin,

spiraled in rings and bracelets

of gold and silver, shine.

Lisa takes my hand,

and we go inside.

The house is white,

filled with colorful pillows,

magazines, the smell of smoke.

We sit and play with her dogs,

twin Maltese with knotted fur.

She tries to hug them, but they

just keep jumping in and out of Lisa’s lap.

Outside, the mothers

talk. Hands flail

in all directions,

stories and pronouncements,

bodies shifting.

It’s normal for a moment,

and then I see my mom

grab Lisa’s mom by the hands

with a painter’s grip,

and she says something

eye to eye.

When they come in,

my mother kisses us both

and walks through the door.

Lisa’s mom smiles

at us, walks to the kitchen,

pours a glass of wine,

and I feel the taste

of champagne

coming up from my stomach.

Lisa looks at her mom.

I see her shoulders suddenly

hunch forward, and

she takes my hand,

squeezes tightly,

her mouth forming

words she’ll never say.

Fight the Corn Chip

Her mom gives me

a tuna fish sandwich,

rye bread, toasted, sliced in half,

corn chips stacked on the plate,

a Coke.

I already know that I’m not drinking

the soda, but I put a corn chip in my mouth.

I feel Lisa looking at me,

clear, green eyes, telling the story

of the boy who couldn’t

fight the corn chip.

I take the edge of the chip,

scrape the tuna off the bread.

I place eight chips along the edge

of the tuna,

stack and eat them,

just the eight,

one by one.

The best chips I’ve ever had.

We spend the day on her phone.

I hate talking on the phone.

I don’t know what to say,

but that’s what we do.

We call her friend in Corte Madera,

a girl I’ve never met.

Lisa says a few words about me,

cute, shy, supercool,

hands me the phone and says,

Talk to Gretchen. She’s totally funny.

Silence.

Lisa hits me in the leg, and grits her teeth. Go!

I say        hello.

Gretchen

Her phone voice is smooth, with a slight upward tilt

at the end of each sentence. It’s scratchy too, in places.

She tells me that she has red hair. So red, she says,

it’s orange. It’s, like, super rad, she says.