staring at her. Cressida didn’t notice, but Jane did.
“Go check on Grandpa,” she said to me.
“He’s fine,” I said. Jane raised her eyebrows, and I went upstairs.
Grandpa lay in bed shirtless, over the blankets, crying. His room smelled like urine, and his pajama pants were soaked through. He kept saying “I,” repeating it, as if attempting to resume agency over his body.
“It’s okay,” I said. I took a hand—I didn’t want to get too close, to invade his space—and held it the way an infant reaches out and acquaints herself with an extended finger. I removed his pants slowly, careful not to touch, to impose on his vulnerability. I took a towel from his bathroom and wiped the damp skin on his legs and on his penis.
“It’s okay,” I said. “It’s just Sam. Everything will be okay.”
I gave him a fresh set of underwear, covered him with a blanket, crawled in next to him. I wiped the tears from his cheek with my thumb, kissed his unshaven face, ran a finger through his hair.
He looked at me like he didn’t know me but knew he needed my help.
“It’s just Sam,” I said. Grandpa moved toward me and kissed my lips. He didn’t kiss aggressively, assuredly. More like someone going in for a first kiss, without expected result.
I didn’t kiss back. His lips were dry. “Sam,” he said. He rubbed my shoulders, wrapped his arms around my body. He rested his chin on my shoulder, calm now. He put his fingers below the waistband of my boxers. He didn’t rub my penis, just held it in his hand, not for long, just for a moment, as if, by holding it, he were transferring some kind of energy, some kind of thank-you.
Then it was Chanukah. We had a menorah, but no one bothered to plug it in. I was rolling with Squirrel and Deep, sucking down jays, wearing sunglasses. Squirrel played the guitar. He didn’t know how to tune it, but he could make loud fuzz and hold a cigarette between the strings. Mostly they came to my house. We’d hang on the porch and talk shit about the shitheads at school. Jane and Cress were sometimes there. I’d started calling her Cress in my head because I liked the way it sounded, like watercress. Squirrel liked her big lips because they were good for sucking dick.
“Hello, ladies,” Squirrel said. “Care to join us?”
Jane fingered her protractor, turned the page. “Fuck off,” she said. Cress smiled.
It was still warm outside. My mother never came home and busted us. Christmas break was in a week, but first there was the Christmas dance. Squirrel, Deep, and I weren’t going, or we were going to egg it, or we were going to steal vodka from Squirrel’s dad’s liquor cabinet and show up plastered and vomit on jocks. We’d get thrown out of school and sent to public school to be with real people, ones who understood us, girls who liked good music.
Jane was going to the dance. Richie Cohen had asked her. I wasn’t going to act all protective brother. I’d seen him in the halls; his ears were bigger than his face.
“He’s a nice guy” was all Jane said. I’m sure he was a nice guy.
“You going?” Jane asked. It was late night; we were watching The Late Show . I wasn’t stoned for the first time in a while, and I was lying there thinking about how much better it was being stoned.
“Whatever,” I said.
“You should go.”
“I said whatever.”
“I know someone who would go with you.”
“Shut up.”
“Though I don’t know why she’d want to, considering how lame you are.”
“I wouldn’t go with any of your friends.”
“Not even Cressida?”
“Whatever,” I said.
Squirrel asked Cressida and she said yes. He borrowed his brother’s Camaro, even though he didn’t have a license. The car barely had a backseat, but four of us managed to squeeze in. Cress was in shotgun, and Deep and I were in back next to Richie Cohen and Jane, who were lap-sitting.
Squirrel sort of knew how to drive. He only stalled at lights, or when it was
“Go check on Grandpa,” she said to me.
“He’s fine,” I said. Jane raised her eyebrows, and I went upstairs.
Grandpa lay in bed shirtless, over the blankets, crying. His room smelled like urine, and his pajama pants were soaked through. He kept saying “I,” repeating it, as if attempting to resume agency over his body.
“It’s okay,” I said. I took a hand—I didn’t want to get too close, to invade his space—and held it the way an infant reaches out and acquaints herself with an extended finger. I removed his pants slowly, careful not to touch, to impose on his vulnerability. I took a towel from his bathroom and wiped the damp skin on his legs and on his penis.
“It’s okay,” I said. “It’s just Sam. Everything will be okay.”
I gave him a fresh set of underwear, covered him with a blanket, crawled in next to him. I wiped the tears from his cheek with my thumb, kissed his unshaven face, ran a finger through his hair.
He looked at me like he didn’t know me but knew he needed my help.
“It’s just Sam,” I said. Grandpa moved toward me and kissed my lips. He didn’t kiss aggressively, assuredly. More like someone going in for a first kiss, without expected result.
I didn’t kiss back. His lips were dry. “Sam,” he said. He rubbed my shoulders, wrapped his arms around my body. He rested his chin on my shoulder, calm now. He put his fingers below the waistband of my boxers. He didn’t rub my penis, just held it in his hand, not for long, just for a moment, as if, by holding it, he were transferring some kind of energy, some kind of thank-you.
Then it was Chanukah. We had a menorah, but no one bothered to plug it in. I was rolling with Squirrel and Deep, sucking down jays, wearing sunglasses. Squirrel played the guitar. He didn’t know how to tune it, but he could make loud fuzz and hold a cigarette between the strings. Mostly they came to my house. We’d hang on the porch and talk shit about the shitheads at school. Jane and Cress were sometimes there. I’d started calling her Cress in my head because I liked the way it sounded, like watercress. Squirrel liked her big lips because they were good for sucking dick.
“Hello, ladies,” Squirrel said. “Care to join us?”
Jane fingered her protractor, turned the page. “Fuck off,” she said. Cress smiled.
It was still warm outside. My mother never came home and busted us. Christmas break was in a week, but first there was the Christmas dance. Squirrel, Deep, and I weren’t going, or we were going to egg it, or we were going to steal vodka from Squirrel’s dad’s liquor cabinet and show up plastered and vomit on jocks. We’d get thrown out of school and sent to public school to be with real people, ones who understood us, girls who liked good music.
Jane was going to the dance. Richie Cohen had asked her. I wasn’t going to act all protective brother. I’d seen him in the halls; his ears were bigger than his face.
“He’s a nice guy” was all Jane said. I’m sure he was a nice guy.
“You going?” Jane asked. It was late night; we were watching The Late Show . I wasn’t stoned for the first time in a while, and I was lying there thinking about how much better it was being stoned.
“Whatever,” I said.
“You should go.”
“I said whatever.”
“I know someone who would go with you.”
“Shut up.”
“Though I don’t know why she’d want to, considering how lame you are.”
“I wouldn’t go with any of your friends.”
“Not even Cressida?”
“Whatever,” I said.
Squirrel asked Cressida and she said yes. He borrowed his brother’s Camaro, even though he didn’t have a license. The car barely had a backseat, but four of us managed to squeeze in. Cress was in shotgun, and Deep and I were in back next to Richie Cohen and Jane, who were lap-sitting.
Squirrel sort of knew how to drive. He only stalled at lights, or when it was
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