The Magical Imperfect
Page 12
and do anything else she wants to,
and even though I like our plan,
I don’t like that it’s a secret—
doing something we shouldn’t.
I feel the weight of this in every pedal,
like my tires spinning in the mud.
One difficult choice
to make, and suddenly
everything works its way in,
changes how everything looks.
I should be at synagogue,
studying, getting ready,
but since my mom had to go
everyone lets me do
whatever I want to do
and they leave me alone about it.
I know they want me to learn
to make my own decisions,
but I don’t want them
to leave me alone.
The Meeting
Even with all these worries
swirling in my head,
I coast down into the town.
Around Main Street,
people are already everywhere.
I see my grandfather
through the shop window,
already back from synagogue,
a pile of books on his workbench,
but he’s not alone. My father is there
in his Will Clark jersey and Giants hat,
his hands folded,
shoulders hunched,
like he always tells
me NOT to do.
I wait outside.
They are arguing.
My father moves
around the workbench,
his voice loud, muffled
through the window.
My grandfather
stands at his full height.
Most of the time he’s
soft, bent over.
I forget
just how big
he actually is.
Handshake
My grandfather puts his hand out.
At school,
last time Martin
got in my face,
he called me a wimp,
told me I couldn’t
play baseball anyway.
When the teacher heard it,
she made us talk about it.
I didn’t really talk,
but I nodded a lot.
At the end,
she made us stand up,
face each other,
and shake hands
even though we didn’t want to.
I wanted to believe
that would solve everything.
But this has to be different
because nobody is making them do it.
My grandfather steps forward
and puts out his hand
and my father puts out his,
but when he does,
my grandfather reaches in
with sudden strength
and pulls him in tight.
Maybe this is what a handshake
is supposed to be like,
because they look happy,
like they haven’t been
for a long time.
Game 1
People decide to watch the game
near the center of Main Street
in the small park across
from Dimitri’s Candy Shop.
Mr. Dimitri and some of the others
have rolled out his big TV,
one extension cord after the other
all the way across the street
where families lie on blankets
and sit in camping chairs.
Kids play baseball on the grass.
Jordan is there
with Martin and his older brother
and all the boys.
I avoid them.
I bring Buddy to distract me,
his tail wagging against my leg,
everything a new smell,
something to investigate.
Smell of hot dogs
and grilling buns,
grass-stained jeans
and leather baseball mitts,
then woodsmoke from
a fireplace as the sun goes down,
and the dull glow
of the TV, the sound
turned so high
that the speakers hum.
I haven’t told my dad
about the talent show,
the thought of it
hovering like a giant bee
buzzing in my mind.
I’ll tell him today
before the game is over.
But by the fourth inning,
the A’s have scored five runs,
and Giants fans get quiet.
Inning by inning
the outs come quick,
and by the seventh, most people
have already gone home.
Baseball Talk
More than playing baseball,
grown-ups like to talk about baseball.
That Rickey Henderson is hard to stop,
my grandfather says.
He is, my dad argues, but those homers,
what will happen tomorrow?
It feels good hearing them
talk like this.
I pick up Buddy.
He licks my face,
while my father and grandfather
go on like this
all the way back home.
Pre-Game 2
At the park, everything looks the same
except for one thing.
My grandfather sits on a camping chair
beneath a giant umbrella
away from everyone else,
talking to a family,
but not just any family.
I see something
I can’t believe—
it’s the Agbayanis!
When they see us
they all stand,
and there are so many
strange hellos and nice to meet yous.
Lola smiles at me,
and next to her is Malia,
wrapped in a scarf, sunglasses,
and a wide straw hat,
her lips frozen into a frown.
This is the first time
I’ve seen her
away from her house.
She doesn’t move,
so I sit down next to her.
I pull out the notebook,
start flipping through doodles.
Look at this one, I say.
It’s the golem.
Well, can you make it come to life right now?
I look where’s she’s looking, and I see Martin and the other boys
staring at us in between their baseball game.
I can’t blame them, she says.
I mean, look at me?
Wrapped up like a mummy.
And it’s then I notice
that people everywhere
are talking and eating all together,
but no one
is talking to the Agbayanis
except for us.
I go over to Malia
with my mitt and baseball.
Want to play catch?
Malia looks at me,
a smile across her face,
she jumps up.
The mitt dangles from her hand,
then suddenly she launches the ball at me
with incredible strength.
I let it fly past me
since I don’t have a mitt.
It soars, then bounces
all the way into the field,
right past Martin
to where Jordan is standing.
But before I can pick up the ball,
Martin puts his foot on it,
staring at it and then me,
then he lifts his arm
like he’s throwing a fastball.
But I don’t move,
not an inch.
He laughs.
Is the creature your girlfriend now?
I hold out my hand
for him to give me the ball.
No way! I’m not touching this thing after she did.
He moves his foot off the ball.
Jordan walks over,
picks the ball up from the ground,
puts it in my hand.
Game 2
My grandfather and Mr. Cohen
stop talking long enough
to see when Candy Maldonado
launches the ball from right field
and gets Dave Parker out at second.
But the umpire calls him safe,
and the park goes crazy!
Grown-ups use words
kids aren’t allowed to hear.
Mr. Dimitri slams the cover
of his grill, and charcoal bits
fly into the air!
Malia whispers, Was that a bad call?
And then on almost the very next play,
Terry Steinbach hits a home run.
Three A’s score.
The A’s fans let it out,
swinging green flags,
chanting out names.
But my father starts to slowly clap,
looking around, trying to create hope.
It’s okay. It’s okay. Wait till Tuesday. Game 3.
We get to see what they’re made of!
Departing
People peel away from the park
and before Malia goes,
she carefully rewraps her scarf,
whispers in my ear,
See you Tuesday, Etan. Okay?
Don’t forget our plan.
What Are We Made Of?
It’s already dark
when we finally get home;
the apartment seems
emptier than ever.
My father throws our stuff
on the kitchen counter,
sits in the middle of the sofa
staring at the TV
even though it’s off.
He pats the cushion next to him.
I sit down, and he puts his arm around me.
I lean my head on his shoulder.
Well, I guess on Tuesday
we’ll see what the Giants are made of.
The words swirl around in my mind.
Everyone says that. What does it mean? I ask.
What they are made of?
He thinks for a while,
tapping my shoulder lightly.
You know, he says slowly, like what’s inside you, I guess?
Girls are sugar, spice, and all the rest …
I don’t say anything. It can’t just be that.
I guess that’s not it.
I guess it’s about who you are.
What you have been through,
how you handle things
when things get tough.
Like the Giants are having a tough series,
so we have to see if they can pull off a win.
What if they don’t win?
Well, I guess it’s not always about winning.
Sometimes it’s just about believing in yourself.
And then he leans in.
Being brave
even if it seems
like you don’t have any chance of winning.
I look at him, and he continues.
Like your grandpa, and Mrs. Li,
and everyone else,
leaving everything they knew,
all of who they were,
through all those countries,
and then taking a ship
while the world was falling to pieces
just to land on Angel Island—
starting a whole new life
in a strange place.
He hugs me a little tighter.
I think about the past few weeks
and the idea of what we are made of,
and I can’t help but think
how tough Malia is,
that she must be made
of the strongest stuff.
And then the words just come out.
Malia had to leave school
and kids call her that stupid name,
but they just don’t know
how hard it is for her.
He looks up.
That’s right.
We sit there for a while.
And finally
I let my last
tired thought
come out.
Like Mom, too?
Yeah.
He breathes, deeply. Just like Mom.
October 16
At school
there are a few A’s fans
in their jerseys talking loud,
but mostly, everyone is quiet.
At lunch, I sit near the field.
I sketch the Golden Gate.
The long belly of the bridge
stretches from one tower to the other,
and just beyond is where my mom is.
Etan!
It’s Jordan, he’s holding a mitt.
Etan, we need someone to play left.
Jeremy had to go home ’cause his stomach hurts.
Martin holds the ball, stares at me.
I start to shake my head no,
but then something happens.
Maybe it’s the sound of his voice,
or all that’s been happening,
I think, what am I made of?
I stand up,
putt on the mitt,
slowly walk out to left field.
Martin growls at me,
Don’t mess it up.
The field is grass forever
and foggy skies
and too many people.
Martin pitches,
and then
in slow motion,
Josh hits the ball
so hard it goes invisible,
until the moment
I see it coming right for me,
already on its way down.
I hold out my mitt,
feel the eyes of everyone
on my every move.
This is the very last thing
I wanted to happen.
And then, all at once, I feel
the sudden, perfect weight
of the ball, square in the webbing
of the leather mitt.
I smile
because I caught it!
But it doesn’t matter
because by then the earth
is already shaking.
The tremor doesn’t last long,
but enough for everyone to line up
like our drills teach us.
This isn’t the first tremor
to hit us this week,
but
it will be the last.
The Agbayanis
At the shop,
my grandfather is bending over,
picking up a few screws that jumped
out of their containers during the tremor.
I tell him about my catch,
he coughs a little, punches me in the arm.
Are you going to your friend’s today?
The last day before the show?
Not today. I should be there
when Dad gets home.
I hope he’s not mad
that I’m not going to the game.
You need to tell him. He will understand.
And besides, we will ALL be there.
All of you? I ask.
We would not miss it.
I think about our plan,
sneaking away to sing.
I never thought about this,
that everyone might come;
her parents will find out for sure!
Why did we think we could keep it a secret?
Grandpa, you can’t invite Malia’s parents.
She’ll be in trouble!
Etan, it’s okay, the Agbayanis are part of us.
The Truth
I can’t sleep because
<
br /> Game 3,
the talent show,
the plan,
my mom,
and everything swirling.
I dream about
Buddy barking wildly
and biting my pants,
trying to tell me something.
Then, all of a sudden, I am
slipping into the muck
of the pool,
the clay pulling me
deep down inside it,
the trees reaching
long wooden arms,
trying to pull me out.
My father wakes me up,
makes me eggs and toast.
Today’s the day, he says. Go Giants!
But I know that I need to tell him
that I am going to the talent show.
Then the phone rings.
It’s my mom,
and she wants to talk to me.
When you don’t talk a lot
I think your ears get stronger.
So now, sometimes,
I feel I can hear the meaning of words,
the shape of their sound.
My mom’s words are light,
silver clouds in a blue sky.
She tells me that she’s coming home soon. Coming home.
Home:
I smell the wood and metal
of my grandfather’s shop,
feel the coolness
of the Sitting Stones
beneath the redwoods,
smell the skin lotion
Malia wears,
like vanilla and sunlight.
But the shape of the word
changes when my mom says it,
like ice cream melting on the cone,
or the soft voice
before going to sleep,
reminding me
that I am made
of just the right stuff.
I whisper everything to her
about Malia and the talent show
and the tickets to the game.
What do I do, Mom?
She’s quiet
for so long
that I wonder
if she’s really okay.
Tell your father, she says.