Life From Scratch by Sasha Martin Page B

hat and karate belt were tucked in his casket with him. She laid a long-stemmed red rose, a small white rose, and a sprig of baby’s breath across his chest.
    Mom ended the letter, “Patricia and Pierre gave Michael the best two years of his life. He got to do and try everything he ever wanted to do and try. They were very good to Michael. We all tried to help that boy—he had so much potential to be great. Don’t look back too much—just enough to figure it out. Look ahead. You have a future. Remember, you can write to me. There is nothing I want more than for you to have a real family and home and good life and be happy because—you may not believe this—I LOVE YOU. And that’s the whole truth, and nothing but the truth—so help me God!”
    Then she cut her letter short: “But I don’t want to dwell on that now. Someday, maybe in 100 years, we can talk about it again.”
    No one ever explained why we didn’t go to the funeral, but I later learned that Pierre had opted not to attend his own brother’s funeral years earlier. I suppose some people don’t need or want that sort of closure.
    But missing Michael’s funeral made me feel that part of me was being amputated without my consent. He was gone, and there was nothing for me to do but stand in his sun-drenched room, watch the dust fairies swirl around me, and wonder at the impossible emptiness. The smell of life—his life—stuck to the room like a thumbtack; the little boy in wet slacks, mud-caked shoes tracked in carelessly, grass stains on every elbow and knee.
    That’s when the tears finally came. I cried out of anger and out of deep, churning loneliness. I cried when his clothes were stripped off their hangers and heaped into bloated, black trash bags for a local boys’ home. I cried when his sneakers were thrown in the trash because they were too grimy to donate. I cried because I needed my mom. I cried because I didn’t know how to stop crying. And the more I cried, the more hollow I felt.

PART TWO
    Another Me n u

“Life is bitter when there is no sugar at the bottom.”
—Boris Vian

CHAPTER 8

    Innocent Abr o ad
    A BOUT A WEEK AFTER M ICHAEL ’ S DEATH , Toni, Patricia, Pierre, and I sat around the breakfast table for the first time in weeks. It was 1992. President Bush had vomited on the prime minister of Japan, Mike Tyson pleaded guilty to rape, and at age 16, Tiger Woods had just become the youngest PGA golfer in 35 years. The spring air felt thick with Michael’s absence, yet the sun slid up to the windowpanes and spilled down onto the table, sparkling with the promise of a normal day.
    Oh, I still sneaked into the girl’s bathroom at school to unload my tears, but this was to be a day without hospital visits or the staggering weight of impossible hope. My brother was gone; nothing could change that.
    No longer a rock against the current, I tumbled back into the rhythm of normal life. I returned to school in time for homeroom and fell back into my studies. But now, the “pity stares” cast in my direction by the popular kids ended. For weeks their eyes had followed me through the halls, my very presence silencing their chatter. If they would just start teasing me again, I knew I’d be OK, that I could get through this. And then maybe I could start breathing again.
    But first I had to get through breakfast. Fresh-squeezed orange juice, rolls, peach jam, and thick blocks of Irish butter dotted our large white plates. I slumped into the routine of the meal with relief, letting it prop me up and carry me through another day without Michael. But as I placed a soft, shiny roll onto my plate, everything changed.
    “Pierre has a new job opportunity in Paris,” Patricia said. “We’ll be moving in August.” The words were exhaled, more confession than revelation. She looked at Toni and me weakly, the corners of her mouth briefly drawn up into a half smile, as though she wanted to comfort us, but didn’t have the emotional strength to