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.