Nothing Read online

  More murmuring, more handshaking, a few nods.

  Dad makes his way to the counter, which is manned by a guy with the kind of white beard Santa would envy. “Any release papers I gotta sign throwing all my civil rights in the toilet?”

  I stand to the side by myself as Dad confers with the Santa guy behind the counter. If you were to ask me what my father did for a living, it would be hard to give you an accurate answer. He isn’t in the Jewish mafia or anything, but Dad’s businesses are definitely on the mysterious side. I know they have something to do with direct mail—that would be junk mail—and marketing, web design, advertising, and sending out loads of spam.

  Whatever it is, it’s hugely successful. There was a time when Dad used to talk to me about taking over the business one day, but the idea of me at medical school erased that plan for good.

  Dad finishes with Santa and we’re led to a room in the back, where we get fitted for helmets and are handed our paintball guns.

  “Pink today,” Santa says, holding up a pink-colored ball.

  Groans of disgust and disapproval.

  “Pink?” Dad exclaims. “Oh, really, come on.”

  Santa shakes his head. “The contract clearly stipulates there is no color selection.”

  “We’ll see about that,” Dad grumbles. “You’ll be hearing from my attorney.”

  Santa looks unmoved. He opens a door for us; we trudge out of the hut and into the woods.

  –––––

  The first hour, nothing happens.

  A lot of aimless wandering. A lot of aimless cursing.

  The second hour, Dad gets talkative. We all started as a big group, but now it’s just the two of us. Dad peels off his gloves.

  “My hands are sweating bullets,” he mutters. “I feel like a fat sweat hog.”

  I take off my gloves, too. All these Michelin-layers are making me warm.

  Dad looks at my hands, then at his own. “I built my whole business with these babies,” he says, holding them up. “Bare hands. Out of our basement in Brooklyn just after you were born.”

  I’ve heard this before—dad’s rags-to-riches story about how he made something from nothing.

  “I made something from nothing,” he goes on. “I didn’t have it handed to me on a silver platter like you kids do.” He shakes his head. “Kids today. Between college consultants and armies of private tutors and cell phones that talk back to you … ”

  There’s a sharp THWACK, and the middle finger on my left hand feels like it’s suddenly on fire.

  I let out a howl of pain and stagger backward, losing my balance and falling to the ground. A telltale splatter of pink covers my hand. I was hit.

  “Parker!”

  Dad reaches for me, but his face contorts and he doubles over, holding his stomach and moaning.

  We both lie there, wounded.

  65 days before

  Danielle

  The doctor says Parker’s finger

  isn’t broken.

  Mom doesn’t care.

  “What if he’d been hit in the head?”

  “We were wearing helmets,” Dad mumbles.

  “Did the helmet cover his eyes?” she snaps.

  “What if he’d been hit in the eyes?

  No—more—paintball!”

  Dad isn’t eating much.

  Neither is Parker.

  They’ve been like that

  all through dinner.

  They called us on Mom’s cell yesterday

  while we were having lunch at Martini’s.

  I’d ordered the roasted butternut squash bisque

  and three-mushroom tomato-basil quiche.

  Mom had the Moroccan turkey salad.

  It was after our sea salt facials at B’Cara Salon & Spa.

  After lunch, Mom was going to take me shopping at Saks.

  A girls’ day out.

  But we never got there.

  64 days before

  Parker

  I have to wear a big bandage on my finger for a week or two. At least it’s my left hand. Besides, injury equals sympathy in the girl department.

  “Poor Parker,” Julianne says when she sees me. She studies my bandaged finger, then kisses it twice.

  I take her to the movies that night and we spend the whole two hours making out in the darkened theater.

  Afterward, Julianne asks, “Want to grab a bite to eat?”

  “Um, well, okay,” I mutter.

  “Is something wrong?” she asks.

  “No, nothing’s wrong,” I say.

  I hold her hand on my thigh as I drive to the Livingstone Diner, letting my thumb rub circles into it.

  Julianne orders a double-bleu cheeseburger with seasoned curly fries. I order a garden salad with fat-free Italian dressing.

  Julianne stares at my salad, then takes my hand and doodles inside my palm with her finger. “Are you okay, Parker?”

  I hesitate, but just for a second. “Yeah,” I say. “I’m fine.”

  I pull my hand back, pick at my salad, and keep my head down.

  We don’t talk.

  63 days before

  Danielle

  The results are announced during homeroom

  over the speakers by Amber Weinstein.

  Parker wins Senior Sex Symbol.

  “Ooooh,” Rachel squeals, nudging my elbow.

  “I told you he’d win!”

  I don’t say what I really want to say, which is:

  I may not be a straight-A student or

  president of Student Council or

  president of Key Club or

  president of National Honor Society or

  president of youth group or

  editor of New Jersey Jewish Ledger’s new teen section or

  a track hero

  or Senior Sex Symbol.

  But I’m somebody, too.

  62 days before

  Parker

  Dad asks me to go to minyan with him.

  My family’s not religious, though we are “actively Jewish.” Rabbi Goldwasser calls it “cultural Judaism.”

  We celebrate all the Jewish holidays, support Israel, and give money to Jewish causes. But we don’t keep kosher, go to synagogue regularly, wear kippot on our heads, or keep the Sabbath.

  A minyan is a quorum of ten people required to start a prayer service. It used to be ten men, but now it’s ten people, including women. Our synagogue has a daily minyan every morning at 6:00 a.m.

  When we arrive, I see I’m the youngest person there, by at least seventy years. Well, I guess Rabbi Goldwasser and Dad aren’t ready for Medicare either, yet.

  We find seats in the hushed sanctuary and open our prayer books. My Hebrew’s actually pretty good, thanks to way too many years of religious school. The light that slants through the stained glass window gives everything in the room a pink aura, the same color as the paint that nailed me on Sunday.

  Dad winces. I glance at him, remembering how he doubled over on the ground during paintball. He wasn’t hit.

  “Are you okay?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” he answers faintly. “I’m fine.”

  The same lie I told Julianne.

  Everyone rises to their feet, so I stand too. Dad remains seated.

  When I sit down again, he leans over and asks, “Have you lost weight, Parker?”

  “No,” I say.

  I spend the rest of the minyan staring straight ahead of me in this room of Jewish guys named Irving, Norman, Mortimer, and Harry—not Parker—and women named Gladys, Millie, Rose, and Mildred—not Amber.

  When the minyan ends, the rabbi comes over and thanks us for coming. He shakes my hand
, then shakes Dad’s.

  “Have you lost weight, David?” he asks.

  61 days before

  Danielle

  Why doesn’t Dad

  take me to minyan?

  I feel mean today

  so I barge into Parker’s room

  even though we’re not supposed to do that

  because we’re supposed to

  “respect each other’s privacy.”

  “You’ve got it all,” I say.

  “You’re gorgeous,

  you’re smart, and

  people pay attention to you.”

  He gazes at me for a long time in silence.

  I get goose bumps suddenly

  because it feels like

  he’s about to tell me something

  really, really important.

  But he only says,

  “You wouldn’t understand,”

  in the tiniest little baby voice,

  and this voice is so sad,

  it’s the kind of sad you can

  actually feel inside your chest.

  I put my hand over my heart

  and let out a little moan

  and run back to my room.

  I don’t feel mean anymore.

  I feel like giving Parker a hug.

  But I stay in my room

  and visit postsecret.com.

  If I had the guts, the postcard

  I’d send would say:

  Sometimes I wonder

  what my life would be like

  if I were an only child.

  60 days before

  Parker

  Every time I think about calc, I want to throw up, which is strange, because I’m already throwing up.

  59 days before

  Danielle

  Here’s another secret

  I’d send

  to postsecret.com:

  I didn’t vote for my brother

  for Senior Sex Symbol.

  Not because he doesn’t deserve it.

  Because it’s about time

  he lost something.

  58 days before

  Parker

  I get a D on our next calc quiz.

  At the drive-through window at Taco Bell, I order three steak burritos and three orders of cheesy potatoes.

  57 days before

  Danielle

  Amber Weinstein crowns Parker

  Senior Sex Symbol in the cafeteria.

  Parker lowers his head so she can

  put the sparkly gold crown on him.

  “Take your shirt off,” says the photographer

  from The Roundup, our school yearbook,

  pointing her camera at him.

  “Take your shirt off!” everyone chants.

  Foxy whistles. Spaz hoots.

  Julianne covers her mouth and giggles.

  Teachers roll their eyes.

  This is a Livingstone tradition.

  It’s all for a good cause.

  But Parker looks exactly like

  that deer we almost hit

  when we were coming home from an

  apple-picking trip last year.

  He shakes his head

  and walks off the mock-stage.

  Just like that.

  “What’s McDreamy’s problem?”

  a girl whispers behind me.

  I could tell her to shut up.

  Or butt out.

  Or buzz off.

  But I can’t answer her question

  because I don’t know either.

  56 days before

  Parker

  I go to Julianne’s house almost every day.

  Today, we’re making out as usual in her room, Julianne lying on top of me. She tugs on my shirt and says, “Take this off.”

  I freeze. “No.”

  She giggles. “Don’t play hard to get with me, Parker, like you did with your adoring public yesterday.”

  “No.”

  She asks disbelievingly, “You don’t want to take your shirt off?”

  I shake my head vigorously.

  “Why not?” She leans close and makes her voice sexy. “How am I supposed to run my hands all over you?”

  I would take everything off if she wanted. But not now, during the day, when she can see everything—like in the cafeteria, where everyone could see everything.

  Julianne frowns. “What is it now?”

  “Nothing,” I say. “It’s just … can we close the blinds?”

  She giggles again. “You’re shy?”

  “Um, yeah, I’m shy.”

  “You? But you’ve got a great body.”

  Great body? Why does everyone keep torturing me about this? I know I need to lose weight. I know I’m a failure.

  I kiss her, hoping it will take her mind off my shirt, but when I’m done, she says without missing a beat, “I feel like you’re keeping something from me. You’re so secretive.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say. Then, “I’m not keeping anything from you. Honest.”

  Liar.

  Big fat liar.

  Julianne gazes deeply into my eyes. Looking for the truth in there? Well, forget it. I learned a long time ago how to keep my eyes from revealing my secrets.

  “Okay,” she finally says. “So, if I close the blinds, you’ll reveal your gorgeous pecs to me?”

  I smile a little. “What about you? It’s only fair.”

  She grins. “No, just you.”

  “Not fair. What about equality between the sexes? Women’s rights? Double standards?”

  She laughs. “I love you, Parker.”

  Julianne loves me.

  I need to eat.

  –––––

  It wasn’t always like this.

  In the beginning, all I wanted was to lose a little weight.

  “Did you know that when we meet someone for the first time, 55 percent of their first impression of us is based on our appearance?”

  It’s true. It’s one of Dad’s favorite “life sayings.”

  Half of all Americans are on diets, according to a study by Weight Watchers, but only 5 percent succeed in losing weight and keeping it off.

  It was last year at Thanksgiving. I ate so much, so fast, I felt nauseous afterward. I actually made myself feel sick.

  “Quite the feeding, eh, Parker?” Dad commented as I sat at the table trying to hide my nausea. “The average American adds eleven pounds to his already-fat body between Halloween and New Year’s.”

  He pinched my stomach. I flinched.

  I excused myself from the table, locked myself in the bathroom, and vomited into the bowl. It wasn’t intentional.

  But as I flushed away our Thanksgiving dinner, it dawned on me. I’d gotten rid of the problem. I’d eaten as much as I wanted, but I’d made the calories disappear.

  By vomiting them, I’d undone them. I’d undone any damage caused by my overeating.

  I could eat as much as I wanted.

  With. No. Consequences.

  I had the magical protection of vomiting.

  55 days before

  Danielle

  Mom and Dad are at the cancer center

  again.

  Parker’s never here.

  I live in a house where

  there’s a lot going on,

  too much going on,

  except no one ever talks about it.

  Today, my postcard would say:

  Sometimes I wonder

  what it would be like

  to live in a poor country

 
where, instead of worrying about stupid stuff,

  like going to college,

  what clothes are cool,

  and what other people think,

  you have to worry about real stuff,

  like eating,

  having clean water to drink,

  and keeping flies off your face.

  54 days before

  Parker

  The offices of the New Jersey Jewish Ledger are behind the Rabinowitz Family Campus by the Hirsch Memorial Library. I’m three minutes early for my appointment with Aaron Rosenthal.

  “Hey, Parker,” he says, leading me into a conference room and placing a stack of newspapers in the center of the table. “Have you lost weight?”

  “No.”

  “So, the first order of business here is a name,” he says, pushing the stack of newspapers toward me. “They want a teenager-oriented name for this section. Something hip like Fresh or Ink or Fresh Ink. I know teenagers like to leave letters out of words. Razr and Grl. You know.”

  No, actually, you don’t know. You don’t have a clue.

  “So, what’s the most important issue facing teenagers today?” he goes on. “What do teenagers want to read about? Hey, by the way, can I count on you to chair our Kosher Food Collection next month?”

  How much do they think they can keep dumping on me?

  I ignore Aaron and page through the stack of newspapers in front of me.

  There are stories about Iraq, Hamas, Hizbullah, hate crimes bills, AIPAC, Nazi-era diaries, a Holocaust film series, and anti-Semitism in Europe.

  Those are interesting stories, but there aren’t any about getting into Princeton, flunking AP Calculus, male breast cancer, or vomiting.

  There are no stories about pressure, losing weight, parents, or shiksa girlfriends.

  What’s the most important issue facing teenagers today?

  What do I want to read about?

  Where do I start?

  53 days before

  Danielle

  I read in a magazine a while back

  that we’re called “millennial kids”

  because we were born in the 1980s and 1990s.