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Weights and Measures

weights and measures
How He Tells You: When your Dad says Sit down, I have something to tell you, you imagine he’ll say: I’ve lost my job, we’re moving, you’re starting eighth grade in Vermont. His voice has that somethingbad ’s-coming sound, and he stoops to pick something off of the carpet. Of course, it’s just a penny or a leaf from the fern, but he keeps looking at it while your heart squeezes still. He keeps looking at it as he tells you Your mother and I are not going to be living together anymore. I’ve got an apartment. That’s all you hear, that and the word Separation. Not Divorce, no you listen for that as best as you can until your eyes start to cloud and make diamonds of lamplight. You say, I’m going upstairs for a minute and your mom follows you, but her nose is all red and her undereyes puff. You don’t want 48 weights and measures 49 your mom to cry with you so you shut it off, just shut everything off and reroute the pain to your fingers. That feels better, removing the pain from your heart. She tries to hold your hand but it hurts so you pull away. Then your Dad calls from the steps, Honey? Let’s go see the apartment, and you feel your legs moving, carrying you down to his voice. The car ride is quiet. Out the windows are gray tarpatched streets, gray sky, Stop-N-Go, Marathon. Four stoplights from your house he turns the car. After two speed bumps you’re parked by a door, a brown ugly steel door in a tan ugly building, flat and lonely and square as a Monopoly house. You don’t know what to say, what he wants to hear. All you can see of your mom is the seat in front of you and the crumpled corners of Kleenex. Somewhere deep in your belly is an ache just like hunger, but you shut that off too, you won’t feel that either. C’mon, let’s look inside, your Dad says like you’ve rolled into Disneyworld, but instead of mermaids or dwarves you see only that door, his hand jingling keys and the colorless sky.  How to Measure Yourself: Look. In the mirror, there’s nothing but doughy goose pimples . There should be hollows punched in the sides of your hips, shadows along your shoulders and cheeks, ribs like a xylophone instead of breasts. Try pulling the flesh of your thighs, pinching the sag of your underarms to see what you’ll look like in just a few pounds. Suck breath to make your pelvis a skin-covered bowl. Make your collarbones sharp as a wooden hanger. Erase borders and outlines, pull yourself tight as you’ll go, turn your skin into blankets tucked into your bones.  How to Eat Sunday Dinner: Your dad comes over for dinners on Sundays. Four stoplights away means a new zip code, a new telephone number that your mom always forgets so that you have to dial, sometimes leave a message. You feel weird calling him, asking when he’ll be over, what time you should put in the pot roast, set the oven on broil. Talking to him on the phone isn’t like talking to the boy from Six Flags. Your dad’s voice is tinny and leaves gaps where you think it should laugh or ask questions. When he walks through the door, your new puppy goes crazy and spins, chasing its tail for what seems like an hour. You stand at the counter sprinkling cheese on potatoes, waiting and not waiting for him to hug you. Your mom cuts tenderloin with a shrieking electric knife. You set the table wrong, knives and forks opposite, and he notices, says You never get this right, do you Honey? He pats your back and switches the silver and laughs, clinking spoons. He brings over wine, tells of his new wine-tasting class, of the sweet whites like perfume, the reds bitter as blood. The way that you taste it, he says, is like this, and he smells the cork, pours a glug, sniffs, swirls the glass, takes a sip. You practice this with water sometimes when he leaves. He lets you have a glass with your dinner and...