Wicked Hungry

“No—not Uncle Eli?”

“He’s an option, yes, although I don’t know if I want to schlep all the way down to Brooklyn. Your uncle has some friends in Providence, though, who might be able to help.”

“Let me guess, some friends on the East Side? Who speak Yiddish and won’t drive a car on Saturday?”

“It’s about mysticism, spirituality, the Kaballah. But most of all it’s about keeping my boy safe. That’s why you need to see someone.”

“Maybe I should see a shrink?”

“Maybe we could all use a psychologist,” my mother says. “That’s definitely an option. But no, for right now I was thinking you should see someone from the coven. You may be young, but it’s time for you to be initiated. All of us in the coven draw our power from the moon. It’s the way of Wicca. Maybe if you could control the power in you, channel it—”

“Mom, there’s no power in me.”

“You can’t deny—”

“Mom, I’m fine.”

“Great. You’re fine. We’ll talk later. But I’ll see if I can set something up.”

“There’s no need, Mom,” I say.

I don’t want to see anyone from the coven. A bunch of scantly clothed middle-aged ladies jumping over me and slapping me with basil to purify my essence is not my idea of fun. But spending twelve hours praying non-stop with the Hasidim isn’t any better. I’ve got to figure this out on my own. My mother has enough to worry about. I don’t like how this is affecting her. How this is affecting me.

“Stanley, why are you arguing with me?”

“Because I told you I’m fine.”

She doesn’t say anything for a while. She just fingers the chain around her neck. It’s from her coven. I know that. It’s supposed to store energy. I figure she could use that energy now. Teenagers are exhausting enough, without all my special problems.

She just stands there, looking at me, fingering the pendant. “Then get mowing,” she says finally. “Our grass is way too high. It’s a forest out there. A tick paradise. All we need is someone catching Lyme disease.”

I groan, and my mom smiles a thin smile. Have I told you that in addition to her mysticism and her obsessive worrying my mom also has a sadistic side?

We have this push-mower, and sometimes I think push-mowers were put on the world by some green god to torture people, especially teens like me. Every little stick gets stuck in the blades and I have to shake the mower by the handle until it falls out.

Enrique jogs up, his hair one stiff spike. His face is covered with sweat.

“You keep it up like that,” I say. “And you’ll make varsity.”

He shrugs. “I’ll be happy just to make the team.”

I start pushing the mower again. Hit a stick. Stop, wince.

“How is the physical therapy?” asks Enrique.

“Worthless,” I say. “But pretty painful.”

“Well, it could be worse,” he says. “At least—”

“At least what?”

“At least you can mow the lawn?”

“Thanks, Enrique. I appreciate the sympathy.”

But he’s got me smiling, which is good, actually. I could use a little lightening

up. Last night with Karen on the rebound and Zach with his vitamins was weird enough. But this morning with the hair on my chest? And the bleeding gums? And then just leaving out the evidence for my mother to find, knowing how she worries?