with Chris and Beth
it’s better he adds
and looks down
I don’t drink at their house
never have
so it’s not a temptation
I sit motionless
thinking through all he just said
Sam finishes his second slice
and picks up our paper plates
do you see your mom a lot? and stepfather? I ask
most weekends he says
as he stands and tosses our plates
into the trash
your father?
hardly ever he says
it’s not good for me to be around him
I go to AA
but he still drinks
then I’m not sure
if I should
but I ask
did your Mom live in Cambodia
during Pol Pot?
and he sits down again and says
when the Khmer Rouge took power
she was four
her father and oldest brother
were killed the first year
then a little sister and a brother died—
from sickness, malnutrition
and her mother was taken away . . .
then my mom and her older sister and brother
were separated
but found each other
and finally made it to a border camp
they got out in ’81
when she was ten
I think of the film
of Dith Pran laboring in the mud
starving so much he ate lizards
nearly killed again and again
finally making his way to the Thai border
she must be incredibly strong to have survived I whisper
and lucky
but he says
strong, weak
lucky, unlucky
who knows
and looks away
then we hear a honk
and through the window see
Chris has pulled into the parking lot
so we pick up our bags
and step outside into the cold
but Chris gets out of the car
walks around to the passenger side
and Sam climbs into the driver’s side
what . . . ? I say
as I climb in
I’m driving Sam says
I stare at him
why not? I’m seventeen
and in a week I’ll have had
my license six months
then I can drive friends
without this guy tagging along
and Sam pokes Chris in the arm
I suck in my breath
buckle my seat belt
Sam backs out slowly
pulls onto the main road
and starts to drive
with Chris giving advice
every other second
for which I’m grateful
because it seems too weird
to be in a car driven by someone
practically my age
in the dark
in rain
that makes the road
hard to see
in Japan
you can’t get your license
till you’re eighteen
I say
good rule! Chris says
how old are you?
Sam asks in the rearview mirror
when we stop at a light
sixteen?
in January I say
then at the next light he says
so . . . you get your permit in January
take driver’s ed in the spring
and get your license in July
I nod at his eyes in the mirror
if I’m still here I say
they drop me off at YiaYia’s
and Sam says
see you next week
or maybe before
and my stomach turns one way
hoping for before
and wishing next week
but then my stomach turns another way
because in one week
there’ll be just one week more
to my mother’s surgery
I actually see Sam
in the hall the next day
pass him when he’s talking
with a group of guys built like him
not so tall but lean, broad-shouldered and muscled
one of them, Jae-Sun, I know from Model UN
and another, Tim, from biology
Sam looks up when I pass
and I say hey
and he says hey back
and from the sound of it after I pass
he’s getting teased
this week in Model UN
we’re working on writing resolutions
and practice position papers for our countries
Jae-Sun tells me I’ll probably make the team
to go to the Boston conference at the end of January
and maybe even New York in May
I don’t say anything about how I hope
we’re not living here at the end of January
and certainly not by May
how I hope we’re back in Japan by then
in dance club Tracy
and choreographer Claire
teach us more moves for the jazz routine
we’ll do during basketball halftimes
and it’s harder than I expected
fast and full of leaps and fan kicks
pirouettes and fouettés
I haven’t done in a while
so later, at YiaYia’s
I roll up the rug in our bedroom and practice—
dark outside, curtains open
the bedroom window
as my mirror
on Saturday
I start a new position paper
do grocery shopping with YiaYia
work on homework
practice dance moves
start another letter
download new music
do more Model UN
but I’m bored
tired of Venezuela
tired of this neighborhood that’s not near anything
where you have to have a car
even just to get a bottle of shampoo
so I text Sam
and wait
I don’t hear from him
till it’s practically dark
when he texts
poetry workshop at Newall
where were u?
2morrow dance practice
now at my mom’s in Lowell
and I text
hey! no one told me about a workshop!
I would have been there!!!
and he texts
sorry! next time
and in fact it’s fine by me that I missed
since I’m really just learning
how to help Zena
but still, I hope Lin
or her sister, Anne
or someone
was there for her
then I’m thinking
dance?
he wrote dance?
and all weekend I’m wondering
what kind
hip-hop? jazz? ballroom? ballet?
and why isn’t he at school dance club meetings
with those other two guys?
all weekend long
I’m thinking
hey
Sunday morning Mom, Toby and I
go with YiaYia
to her Greek church
as we drive into Lowell
past huge homes that YiaYia says
once belonged to mill owners
across a bridge into the center of town
with old factory buildings and apartment blocks
I’m wondering where Sam’s mother lives
or if I might catch a glimpse of Sam
on the street
YiaYia’s church is huge
with gold domes topped with crosses
modeled after churches in Constantinople she says
which is Istanbul I want to say
inside are long windows of stained glass
a curved wooden balcony
saints painted on the ceiling
even puffy clouds
I don’t mind being there
since I’ve never had the chance
to be in a building like this
just staring up
watching the light
beam down
at the coffee social afterward
we’re introduced to the priest
and all of YiaYia’s friends
and two breast cancer survivors
even Mom is smiling, relaxed
not pinched and overrevved
like she often is these days
as if she’s psyching herself up
for a marathon
after we leave the church
we drive slowly through a downtown
of shops and restaurants
where I’d like to get out and walk around
but YiaYia’s at the wheel and she says
she has sandwich makings at home
we pass signs for sushi
spring rolls
and pad thai
and my mouth waters
for rice
noodles
bean sprouts
seaweed
anything
but the pasty taste
of egg salad
or chicken salad
or tuna fish sandwiches
on Monday I see Sam once
as I’m making my way into the cafeteria
but he doesn’t see me
and we don’t even get to say hey
after school I hang out in the library
going through the poetry collection
searching for poems for Zena
and while I’m reading one of the oems
at first I think it’s just the irregular line breaks
the space the poet made tween words
but I look up
at the sh lves
at t librarian
and the spot fo lows
grows
I pack my bag
call YiaYia
tell her to come get me
then I go outside the school
sit on a low stone wall
my head in my hands
eyes closed
waiting
but YiaYia doesn’t arrive
and she still
only uses her cell phone
to make, not receive, calls
I set my pack in my lap
fold my arms
put my head down
try to stay calm
but I’m already half blind
and soon I’m shivering
inside the school
I make my way
along the wall
to the nurse’s office
and drop onto a bed
then sit up
and throw up
into a wastebasket
by the time I wake
to the sound of Mom’s voice
speaking to the nurse
the crescent of triangles has left
but numbness claims one arm
plus my tongue and jaw
and my head pounds and stabs
I lean on her
my eyes closed
as we walk out
the quiet school
to the car
then I fall across the backseat
she says something to me as she drives
I catch
YiaYia mistake
Newall
forgot
high school
drive
but I can’t piece anything together
can’t make sense
or speak
and at YiaYia’s
she puts me to bed
later I wake in the bed
set up in the study
for my mother’s recovery
hungry
the house is dark and still
and in the kitchen
lit by streetlight
I make myself a piece of toast
I dip a spoon into the
jar of yuzu preserves
eat a whole mouthful of the sweet-sour
then take another heaping spoonful
and spread it on the toast
after the toast I open the pantry
and find the instant miso ramen
Dad brought us and I heat some water
without letting the kettle whistle
when the ramen is ready
I hoist myself up to sit
on the kitchen counter
and slurp my noodles
by bluish ghostly streetlight
maybe in the future
I hear Shin say
don’t change
I hear Madoka say
even you, Emma-chan
I hear her grandmother say
hey I hear Sam say
and I think
I don’t know my life anymore
I sleep late the next day
and Mom drives me to school in YiaYia’s car
I don’t say anything and neither does she
until we’re nearly at the school driveway
I think you should start running she says
hmm I say
I hate running
I like sports
I play sports
I’m good at sports
and dance
but I hate
just
running
if I were in Japan
I’d be playing volleyball
maybe on varsity
practicing for the tournament
and taking Saturday classes
at the dance studio . . .
here Toby has middle school soccer
but for me there’s just dance club
I swallow my thoughts
hold my tongue
maybe I say to my mother
just before I get out of the car
but it doesn’t end there
when I get home from school
she insists on taking me for a run
she plays the guilt card
so I can’t refuse:
I’ll show you a loop
you can do on your own
even when I can’t
Mom’s fast
she does 5 to 10 kilometers
most every day
and runs in charity races
several times a year
she’s a dedicated runner
with a lean runner’s body
I’m out of shape now
not sinewy like her
but my legs are longer
so after a while
we find a pace
that suits us both
it’s a thirty-minute run
that seems
to go on and on
down long streets
into a neighborhood
of houses with lawns
big as family farms in Japan
and on those lawns more play equipment
than any playground in the city of Kamakura
and next to the houses
garages for two or three cars
and porches and gardens
and huge shade trees
dropping their leaves
as we run past
I’m short of breath at first
but get into the rhythm
and the autumn air
and our breathing at last
until we come to a road
where three leaf blowers
blare at once
I sprint
to get by them
sprint
the final leg
but Mom pumps
past
in a blur
and beats me
to YiaYia’s stairs
on Wednesday
I have two tests, one in Chinese
easy ’cause of Japanese