IF YOUR BODY were an object, what would it be? That was Bernstein’s hypothetical question today. I wonder where he gets this stuff. Probably off the Internet; some teacher site like howtotortureyourstudents.com.
I actually like Bernstein’s journal prompts. I keep up with them every day, unlike most kids, who write all of their entries at the end of the semester, then fudge the dates. A journal is something to trust, like an aunt you call for advice on makeup. Wish I had an aunt like that. Any relative would do. I would bake cookies for them. Mom must have a relative stashed away somewhere, an address in a drawer, a phone number, someone I could demand an explanation from: Why is she like this?
But I’ve just got the Goldburgs, a couple of once-in-a-while girlfriends, and this journal, my confessor.
Yesterday, at school, Reenie stole my journal entry.
“Sage!” She rushed up to me at my locker. “Bernstein is collecting our answers to the hypothetical questions today. Can you lend me yours? I have it next period and I’m desperate.”
“Lend you?”
“Yeah. I never can think up anything original.”
I opened up my notebook. The question was If you were a country, which one would you be? “We can’t both have the same answer.”
“I know. But you don’t have English till fifth. You’ll think up something else before then. You’re brilliant at this stuff.” She grabbed my notebook and ripped out the page. “I’ll copy it over. Don’t worry. He won’t know the difference.”
I was going to say no, but then I saw something that left me dumbfounded. The purse, my Coach Zebra purse, draped over her shoulder like no big deal.
“Thanks!” She was off before I could yank it off of her.
“But I wrote I was Sudan,” I called after her. “Bernstein will never believe you’re Sudan.”
My journal and my purse; kind of like identity theft. Maybe that’s why I had writer’s block today. I looked at the question on the board and thought, The blank page is a snowy mountain and I’m a downed skier. But that wasn’t the question.
If your body was an object...
Now, I can’t stop thinking of answers. The body is an appliance, a map without borders. The body is a vessel of embarrassment: butt too big, hair too mousy (even highlighted), feet too wide. The body is a blob of Silly Putty, a whale, a bag of manure, a Dumpster, a floating barge. Only the hands are okay, long and thin, capable of kneading dough and decorating cakes. And maybe the legs. Yeah, the legs can hold their own.
I would like to say I feel better. I would like to say that there are rewards for my efforts, which is what teachers and school counselors try to instill in you. But Mom’s life dispels that myth. What is she if not one big failed effort? I wish I could stop thinking about her, feeling like she’s my fault.
It’s true that I am thinner by seven pounds. I can see that on the scale. It’s just I still feel fat. I feel nothing like Mona, with her tiny waist and big green eyes, the way she walks through the hall and says hi to everyone, remembers their names and things about them—like they broke their elbow last summer, or they went to the Bruce Springsteen concert, or they love mangoes and she’s brought them one.
When I walk through the halls at school, I keep my eyes on the floor, especially since that stupid election.
The only time I look up is when I hear Roger’s big voice. My eyes are drawn to him like a paper clip to a magnet.
That’s how I think of Roger. Big. Everything about him. His voice. His curls. His popularity. His muscles. His thick neck. A guy can be a barge. No problem. Then, if you’re drowning, you can grab on to him. He would be unsinkable. He could save you.