Just because.

At the bakery

Lisa shows me

marzipan potatoes,

a million calories

of sugar, honey,

and almond meal

rolled into a potato-

sized ball.

On the walk,

Lisa tells

me about how

her mom

is having a really

hard time,

with her new boyfriend.

They drink too much.

Plus, he is creepy,

always staring at me,

taking pictures of us.

We walk past

the Mill Valley

Lumberyard.

What about your dad?

I ask. She never talks about him.

We keep walking.

Lisa doesn’t answer,

picks up a stone

and hurls it into the creek

along the side of the road.

I don’t ask her again.

After the walk,

her mom isn’t home.

Lisa invites me in.

She teaches me about

Def Leppard, her favorite band.

We play D&D,

write stories about faraway lands

that never existed

and the warriors who protected them.

In her stories,

women are always more powerful

than men.

What Happened on the Bike Path

They are coming for me.

They hate me because

they just do.

Oddball, fat kid, liar, show-off, and sometimes Jew.

pedal. pedal.

handlebars. hold tight.

white egrets in the wind.

space steady steady steady

calm, certain,

still water

Pick, ahead of me.

He’s always faster.

It’s not his fault. He is

just trying to get away.

I am too slow.

My body

too big

to move

the bike

out of

the way

in time.

Skin. Bone. Asphalt.

I made them crash,

they said.

I talk too much.

Kick my ass, huh?

Frank says, Fatboy.

They come around me,

gather like reeds.

I stand. They back me off the bike path,

my feet in brackish water. Marsh grass

brushes my fingertips.

Pick looks over his shoulder

as he pedals away.

What is he supposed to do?

There is a moment

where I feel like

maybe I can beg

or even cry,

but I don’t.

I let them do it to me.

I am fat. They always tell me this.

In the locker room. After school.

At the assembly just last week,

or birthday cupcakes in the classroom.

On the playground, picking teams at recess,

I guess

I’ll take

Fatboy.

I don’t belong. Too big to fit anywhere.

So I just stand there and let them do it to me.

I have always known the pain of being called names:

Fatboy,

Tubs,

Baby Huey—

and then Jewboy!

What’s the matter, Jewboy?

I thought I knew about pain,

but I didn’t know pain like this,

being punched so many times

that everything slows down,

the force of someone else’s weight

being pushed into mine

over and over again.

stomach

shoulder

neck

hands pulling and twisting

legs pinched

fingers bent back

I feel the air pressed out of me

folded in half

fluttering like some injured bird

dirt and flying weeds

and everything moving so fast

I can’t keep them off me.

They keep coming,

inserting themselves