Absolutely Almost

Not everybody can be the rock at the top of the rock pile.” That’s what my Grandpa Park said to my mom once when they thought I was asleep, or just not listening, I don’t know. But my ears work fine. “There have to be some rocks at the bottom, to support those at the top.”

            I sat in my bedroom, knocking the army men one by one off my windowsill. Dad said I was getting too old to play with them, so I didn’t play, just knocked them over. Plunk, plunk, plunk, on the bedspread. But I did it quiet so no one would hear. plunk . . . plunk. For some reason, I felt heavy inside, listening to them talk out in the living room. Or maybe heavy on the outside, like something was pressing down on top of me, when really it was nothing but air. plunk. plunk.

            If I listened real close, I could hear Grandpa Park’s ice clicking in his glass when he lifted it to drink.

            plunk.

            It was quiet in the living room, no talking, only ice, for a long time. When I got to the last army man, I didn’t set them up again right away. I stared at them on the bed, knocked over sideways or on their bellies. On some you could see the black marker where I’d marked their feet when I first learned to write my name. A for Albie.

            It was quiet so long that I thought my mom must’ve gone to bed, and it was just Grandpa Park out there with his glass, drinking down till the ice melted like he usually did when he came to visit. But then Mom said something, so I knew she hadn’t gone to bed after all. She said it real quiet, but I heard.

            “Albie’s not a rock,” she said.





being friendly.




            Tuesday evening was Chinese from the place on 61st Street, just like every Tuesday. When Bernard rang up from downstairs to let us know the delivery man was in the elevator, Mom gave me two twenties from her purse.

            “Wait until he rings the buzzer, Albie,” Mom told me. “And don’t tip more than five.”

            “Okay,” I told her, just as the bell rang.

            It was my favorite delivery man, Wei. He always smiled big when he saw me.

            “Albie!” he shouted, like he was surprised to see me there, even though I answered the door every time. He lifted one of the food bags, like he was waving.

            “Hi, Wei,” I said, smiling back. “How much?”

            “Twenty-seven sixty.” He showed me the receipt stapled to one of the bags, because sometimes with numbers it was hard to understand what Wei was saying.

            I took the bags and handed them to my mom, who put them on the table. They smelled greasy and meaty and delicious, like Tuesday evening. “Thanks,” I told Wei, handing over the two twenties. “Can I get . . .” In my head I rounded up the change, like Mom and Dad do when they give tips in the cab. “Four dollars back?”

            “Sure thing.” Wei took a wad of bills out of his pocket and placed the twenties on the outside, then flicked past the tens and fives till he got to the ones, in the middle. He peeled off four for me.

            “Here you go, Albie.” Wei handed over the bills. “Shee-shee.” At least that’s what it sounded like he said.

            I raised an eyebrow at him.

            “Thank you,” he explained. “How do you say ‘thank you’ in Korean?”

            I looked at Mom. Sometimes people think I know Korean, because I’m half, but I only know “hello” and a couple foods. Mom spoke it with her grandparents, but I don’t think she likes to anymore.

            Mom was busy setting the food out on plates, so she couldn’t tell me how to say “thank you” to Wei in Korean.

            “I’ll tell you next time,” I said.