Swing, Page 2

  But I guess

  if you gotta go,

  that’s the way

  to do it.

  I Don’t Understand Jazz

  While the rest

  of the world

  listens to trap

  and country music,

  I’m listening

  to Benny Goodman,

  and getting accosted

  by Walt

  and his after-coffee breath.

  To me, jazz sounds like

  what biting

  into a lemon

  would taste like

  if you could hear it.

  I just don’t see

  the plum sweetness, I guess.

  Swing

  My best friend

  Walt Disney Jones

  is obsessed with jazz,

  baseball,

  dead famous people,

  and finding cool,

  if it’s the last thing

  we ever do.

  But cool has eluded us

  since we met

  on the losing-est

  third grade baseball team

  in the history

  of earth.

  Cool is Satchel Paige,

  the best pitcher

  to play the game.

  We’re just two

  juniors in high school

  who’ve struck out

  on the field

  as much as off.

  But Walt’s a

  self-proclaimed expert

  on how to

  never give up

  until you win.

  In other words,

  he’s delusional.

  But he is right

  about one thing:

  Baseball’s in my genes, Noah.

  His brother, Moses,

  is Satchel Paige incarnate,

  a baseball phenom

  in our town

  who got drafted

  by the Yankees,

  then disappeared into

  a sea of camouflage

  when he decided instead

  to fight

  for our country.

  But Walt’s no Moses,

  and neither am I.

  Discharged

  Mo’s coming home from Afghanistan.

  YEAH?!

  Like this month. MY BIG BRO IS COMING HOME!

  WOOHOO!

  Perfect timing. Maybe he can teach us how to finally

  catch cool. It’s exhausting chasing it.

  Noah, we’re gonna own cool. Like, when people google

  cool, a picture of me and you spitting seeds and tobacco

  with our hats to the back will pop up.

  First of all, I don’t chew seeds. And no one chews

  tobacco anymore. You gonna eat your fries?

  We’re destined to make the team next year.

  I told you I’m not trying out again. Gimme your fries.

  Quit thinking negatively. Don’t build more walls to block

  what’s possible. Crash through, Noah. Crash the heck

  through.

  Who are you, Oprah now?

  It’s from a podcast I listen to.

  What podcast?

  The podcast that is our ticket out of the desert of

  callowness. Life is simple, Noah, but you have to use the

  miracle power of your mind to tap into the cosmic power

  known as The Woohoo Woman.

  I have no idea what that means.

  It’s the secret. If we’re gonna learn how women think, we

  have to listen to women.

  . . . .

  Truth

  Walt knows everything, believes

  in the power of anything,

  and the stuff he’s unsure of,

  the stuff he doesn’t know, you’d never know,

  ’cause he’s so confident sharing

  every idea, tidbit, factoid,

  hypothesis, positive mantra

  that floats around

  in his big ole brain.

  I’m not gifted

  like him.

  Some things, I tell him,

  are actually impossible,

  like finding

  the right words

  to tell Sam

  she’s my archangel,

  the one who saves me,

  the one who flies

  through my mind

  night and day.

  So, I draw.

  My Secret

  In an old

  shoebox

  under my bed

  are drawings

  and patchworks

  and art pieces

  from third grade

  ’til now.

  Baseball bats,

  gloves and balls,

  starry nights

  and moons,

  strange dreams,

  and hundreds of

  hearts sketched

  for Sam.

  No one knows

  about my secret stash.

  No one

  but my parents

  and Walt.

  The Dare

  The Odyssey, yo. Really?

  What? It’s art.

  Libraries consider defacing a book vandalism and

  mutilation. It’s a threat to intellectual property. I concur.

  Whatever.

  Did you hear anything I said, Michelangelo?

  I heard every word you said, Mr. Woohoo Woman!

  It’s time for us to know ourselves, conquer our inner cool,

  or one day we’re gonna end up walking down the street of

  possibility, alone, naked, and unhappy.

  Dude, you’ve lost me. You gonna eat all your fries?

  Did you ask her out yet?

  Why are you rushing me?

  If 2,539 days is rushing, I’d hate for you to be patient. Yet

  do I marvel. Yet do I freakin’ marvel!

  She’s my best friend. It’s delicate. When I’m ready, I’ll do it!

  FIND a way to tell her, or I’ll tell her for you.

  No, you won’t. YOU ABSOLUTELY WILL NOT TELL

  HER!

  Seven years is a long freakin’ time not to hook up with your

  self-proclaimed soulmate.

  I never said she was my soulmate.

  No, what you said was, and I quote, “Your smile is a joyful

  noise that sings to me like a Baptist choir on first Sunday.

  So strong, it makes me wanna HOLLA!”

  I said that?

  Eighth grade, in Mrs. Allen’s class. Killer metaphor, yo!

  Oh.

  Time to own it, Noah.

  Dude, Cruz will kick my—

  Assume it won’t come to that.

  Why?

  The day is coming when she’ll be available.

  Doubtful.

  Yo, have you noticed she’s calling you a lot more lately,

  wanting to study a lot more lately, generally trying to be

  all up in our mix lately? You think that’s a coincidence?

  . . . .

  It’s not. At worst, she’s unhappy. At best, she’s unhinged.

  Guys like Cruz can throw you off your center. She can do

  better than him. It’s just a matter of time.

  How do you know all this?

  My cousin Floyd.

  Your cousin Floyd? What does he know about this?

  HE KNOWS EVERYTHING. He’s the one who hipped

  me to the podcast.

  Hipped? Who are you, Shaft now?

  Floyd used to date a reality TV star, and he knows a thing

  or two about love. Girls are always fighting over him.

  I think Steve Harvey was going to do an episode about

  him and all his lady friends. He’s my romance guru. He

  counsels me on my love life.

  What love life?

  The one where I’m going to the prom with the baddest girl

  on earth.

&n
bsp; And who is that?

  Don’t know. Haven’t met her yet.

  . . . .

  Anyway, Floyd is super cool, man.

  . . . .

  Get in the game, yo!

  Yeah, okay.

  I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised. Let’s go see him

  tomorrow.

  Can’t tomorrow, I’m helping my mom get ready for her

  trip.

  Then let’s go this weekend.

  We’re going to see my granny.

  She lives around the corner from you, yo.

  Maybe next week.

  You’re not getting out of this, Noah. You and me, next

  week, at Dairy Queen.

  Dairy Queen?

  That’s where he’s currently employed.

  Wait, he works at Dairy Queen? I thought you said he

  was cool?

  Here, taste this, he says, mixing his bowl of spaghetti with

  his fries. You still want a fry?

  . . . .

  Next Week

  The bell rings.

  We all slide out

  of our chairs

  and rush the doors.

  Pretty much everyone else

  in my class

  casually strolls

  to their car,

  or a friend’s car,

  to drive home, or to a job,

  or to get some eats, while

  lucky me

  still gets to mad dash it

  to the bus.

  Except for today.

  Walt’s been harassing me

  for a week to meet

  his cousin.

  So, today, I’m going to Dairy Queen.

  Today, I’m getting schooled

  on romance

  by a romance guru

  who works

  at Dairy Queen.

  Today, we’re supposedly

  coming up with a plan—at Dairy Queen—to

  finally

  tell my best friend

  of seven years

  that I think

  I love her.

  While I’m waiting

  for Walt

  by the flagpole,

  baking beneath sun

  hot as the equator,

  someone walks up

  behind me,

  covers my eyes,

  and whispers

  in a voice

  smooth as silk:

  Guess who?

  Surprise

  Sam, Walt, and I

  used to hang

  every day

  after school.

  Skipping rocks.

  Walks to the lake.

  Video games.

  Homework.

  Just kicking it.

  Granted, that was

  middle school,

  but still, we had fun.

  Together.

  Ever since

  we got to high school,

  she’s all new—classes

  and friends.

  I mean, we still hang,

  but it’s always

  on her terms,

  mostly baseball games

  to see Cruz play,

  and sometimes

  we study together.

  Well, she studies.

  I listen to music

  and crack jokes

  with Walt,

  and pretend

  my heart isn’t beating

  like hip-hop,

  and my stomach

  isn’t all jumbled

  like heavy metal.

  Like it is

  right now, right

  now it is like

  jumbled metal, right now

  a heavy pain

  jumbled

  into metal, heavy

  in my soul like metal

  waiting to be

  unjumbled. Right now.

  My Funny Valentine

  You know what today is, Noah?

  Wednesday.

  You’re hopelessly unromantic.

  . . . .

  It’s Valentine’s Day.

  Oh. Why aren’t you with Cruz?

  I’d rather be with my bestie, she says, grabbing my hand,

  not knowing her teasing is torture.

  . . . ..

  Hey! What are you doing?

  Waiting for Walt.

  I just saw him in the gym.

  Really? We’re supposed to be meeting.

  I guess he’s trying to get fit. You know, you could buff up a

  little too, Noah. I mean, if you want to impress the ladies.

  I’m not interested in impressing girls who just want guys

  with muscles.

  Spoken like a guy with no muscles. Come on, my car’s this

  way. We’re going shopping.

  Shopping?

  Emergency. I need you.

  Okay, but I gotta wait for Walt—we got plans.

  Walt can wait. Plus, you guys are spending too much time

  together, and I’m a little jealous.

  You’re the one who’s always busy, Sam.

  Just text him. We can hook up with him later. C’mon, let’s

  ride.

  What are we shopping for?

  For correct grammar.

  Whatever.

  Dresses. We’re shopping for dresses.

  . . . .

  Unforgettable

  Cruz may get

  to be her boyfriend

  every day,

  but today,

  right now,

  I get to see her

  glide out of

  the dressing room

  in every color

  prom dress imaginable.

  I get to see her

  stun.

  I get to see her

  spin

  like a whirling dervish.

  I get to see her

  look crazy beautiful

  in every single one

  of the fifty-some dresses

  she tries on.

  I get to see her strut out

  in the red one

  with the strap

  off the shoulder,

  the one

  that makes my heart

  freefall,

  like an eagle diving

  off a canyon.

  The one that makes me realize

  that I am way out

  of my league,

  and no amount of baseball

  or Dairy Queen

  will ever get me

  in this game.

  You okay, Noah?

  Insults

  You like it?

  Yeah, it’s okay, I guess, I lie.

  Sucknerd.

  Toadlip.

  Horsehead.

  Big butt.

  Big butt? That’s all you got? You lose.

  Seriously, the dress is tight as your cornrows.

  Awww, that’s beautiful, Noah. Nothing like a new dress

  and a best friend to get rid of the blues.

  What’s going on?

  Cruz is kinda putting pressure on me.

  Pressure? What do you mean?

  What do you think I mean? Did you know female

  dragonflies fake their own deaths to get out of relationships

  with male dragonflies?

  You’re scaring me.

  How do I tell him to slow down?

  Just tell him no.

  I’m scared he might break up with me.

  Then it wasn’t meant to be. Choose the YES that’s best

  for you.

  Huh?

  Never mind. So, you’re wearing this dress to the prom?

  Maybe. You think Cruz’ll like it?

  I guess.

  Are you going?

  I don’t know.

  You didn’t ask anyone yet? NOAH!

  I’m weighing my options.

  Michelle said she thinks you’re kinda cute.

  I don’t need you to be my matchmaker, Sam.

 
Testy, testy! I’m just trying to help.

  Plus, it’s my mom’s birthday, so I’m saving my cash for

  a nice gift. Next year I’ll get the limo, the tux, do the

  whole thing.

  Hard to argue with a guy who thinks about his mom.

  You’re a good guy, Noah. Too good.

  What does that mean, too good?

  Just means some girl is gonna be lucky to get you.

  . . . .

  Let’s keep looking.

  I thought you chose the red one. Haven’t we seen enough

  dresses?

  Just a few more. Then we can go to the game.

  The game?

  Cruz has a scrimmage today.

  Yay!

  We sit

  in the top row

  of the bleachers

  like we own the field,

  drinking Fanta,

  eating hot dogs

  and salted pretzels

  before the game

  starts.

  The players

  on both teams

  cross their arms

  over their hearts

  for the anthem,

  in unity.

  I get up

  to do the same,

  but she pulls me

  back down.

  What are you doing?

  We’re taking a stand, Noah.

  Actually, we’re sitting, I say.

  Exactly.

  Why?

  If you don’t stand for something, you’ll fall for everything.