The Crossover Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Warm-Up

  Chapter

  Josh Bell

  How I Got My Nickname

  At first

  Filthy McNasty

  Jordan Bell

  On the way to the game

  Five Reasons I Have Locks

  Mom tells Dad

  Conversation

  Basketball Rule #1

  First Quarter

  JB and I

  At the End of Warm-Ups, My Brother Tries to Dunk

  The Sportscaster

  Josh’s Play-by-Play

  cross·o·ver

  The Show

  The Bet, Part One

  Ode to My Hair

  The Bet, Part Two

  The game is tied

  In the locker room

  Cut

  ca·lam·i·ty

  Mom doesn’t like us eating out

  Missing

  The inside of Mom and Dad’s bedroom closet

  pa·tel·la ten·di·ni·tis

  Sundays After Church

  Basketball Rule #2

  Girls

  While Vondie and JB

  pul·chri·tu·di·nous

  Practice

  Walking Home

  Man to Man

  After dinner

  After we win

  Dad Takes Us to Krispy Kreme and Tells Us His Favorite Story (Again)

  Basketball Rule #3

  Josh’s Play-by-Play

  The new girl

  I Missed Three Free Throws Tonight

  Basketball Rule #4

  Having a mother

  Mom shouts

  hy·per·ten·sion

  To fall asleep

  Why We Only Ate Salad for Thanksgiving

  How Do You Spell Trouble?

  Bad News

  Gym class

  Second Quarter

  Conversation

  Conversation

  Basketball Rule #5

  Showoff

  Out of Control

  Mom calls me into the kitchen

  35–18

  Too Good

  I’m on Free Throw Number Twenty-Seven

  He probably

  i·ron·ic

  This Is Alexis—May I Please Speak to Jordan?

  Phone Conversation (I Sub for JB)

  JB and I

  Boy walks into a room

  At practice

  Second-Person

  Third Wheel

  tip·ping point

  The main reason I can’t sleep

  Surprised

  Conversation

  Game Time: 6:00 p.m.

  This is my second year

  Basketball Rule #6

  Josh’s Play-by-Play

  Before

  Third Quarter

  After

  Suspension

  chur·lish

  This week, I

  Basketball Rule #7

  The Nosebleed Section

  Fast Break

  Storm

  The next morning

  pro·fuse·ly

  Article #1 in the Daily News (December 14)

  Mostly everyone

  Final Jeopardy

  Dear Jordan

  I don’t know

  No Pizza and Fries

  Even Vondie

  Uh-oh

  I run into Dad’s room

  Behind Closed Doors

  The girl who stole my brother

  Things I Learn at Dinner

  Dishes

  Coach’s Talk Before the Game

  Josh’s Play-by-Play

  Text Messages from Mom, Part One

  The Second Half

  Tomorrow Is the Last Day of School Before Christmas Vacation

  Coach comes over

  es·tranged

  School’s Out

  The Phone Rings

  Basketball Rule #8

  When we get to the court

  At Noon, in the Gym, with Dad

  Fourth Quarter

  The doctor pats Jordan and me on the back and says

  my·o·car·di·al in·farc·tion

  Okay, Dad

  Mom, since you asked, I’ll tell you why I’m so angry

  Text Messages from Vondie

  On Christmas Eve

  Santa Claus Stops By

  Questions

  Tanka for Language Arts Class

  I don’t think I’ll ever get used to

  Basketball Rule #9

  As we’re about to leave for the final game

  During warm-ups

  Text Messages from Mom, Part Two

  For Dad

  The Last Shot

  Overtime

  Article #2 in the Daily News (January 14)

  Where Do We Go from Here?

  star·less

  Basketball Rule #10

  There are so many friends

  Free Throws

  About the Author

  For Big Al and Barbara,

  also known as Mom and Dad

  Copyright © 2014 by Kwame Alexander

  All rights reserved. For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 215 Park Avenue South, New York, New York 10003.

  www.hmhco.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file.

  ISBN 978-0-544-10771-7

  eISBN 978-0-544-28959-8

  v1.0314

  Dribbling

  At the top of the key, I’m

  MOVING & GROOVING,

  POPping and ROCKING—

  Why you BUMPING?

  Why you LOCKING?

  Man, take this THUMPING.

  Be careful though,

  ’cause now I’m CRUNKing

  CrissCROSSING

  FLOSSING

  flipping

  and my dipping will leave you

  S

  L

  I

  P

  P

  I

  N

  G on the floor, while I

  SWOOP in

  to the finish with a fierce finger roll . . .

  Straight in the hole:

  Swoooooooooooosh.

  Josh Bell

  is my name.

  But Filthy McNasty is my claim to fame.

  Folks call me that

  ’cause my game’s acclaimed,

  so downright dirty, it’ll put you to shame.

  My hair is long, my height’s tall.

  See, I’m the next Kevin Durant,

  LeBron, and Chris Paul.

  Remember the greats,

  my dad likes to gloat:

  I balled with Magic and the Goat.

  But tricks are for kids, I reply.

  Don’t need your pets

  my game’s so

  fly.

  Mom says,

  Your dad’s old school,

  like an ol’ Chevette.

  You’re fresh and new,

  like a red Corvette.

  Your game so sweet, it’s a crêpes suzette.

  Each time you play

  it’s ALLLLLLLLLLLLLLL net.

  If anyone else called me

  fresh and sweet,

  I’d burn mad as a flame.

  But I know she’s only talking about my game.

  See, when I play ball,

  I’m on fire.

  When I shoot,

  I inspire.

  The hoop’s for sale,

  and I’m the buyer.

  How I Got My Nickname

  I’m not that big on jazz music, but Dad is.

  One day we were listening to a
CD

  of a musician named Horace Silver, and Dad says,

  Josh, this cat is the real deal.

  Listen to that piano, fast and free,

  Just like you and JB on the court.

  It’s okay, I guess, Dad.

  Okay? DID YOU SAY OKAY?

  Boy, you better recognize

  greatness when you hear it.

  Horace Silver is one of the hippest.

  If you shoot half as good as he jams—

  Dad, no one says “hippest” anymore.

  Well, they ought to, ’cause this cat

  is so hip, when he sits down he’s still standing, he says.

  Real funny, Dad.

  You know what, Josh?

  What, Dad?

  I’m dedicating this next song to you.

  What’s the next song?

  Only the best song,

  the funkiest song

  on Silver’s Paris Blues album:

  “FILTHY

  McNASTY.”

  At first

  I didn’t like

  the name

  because so many kids

  made fun of me

  on the school bus,

  at lunch, in the bathroom.

  Even Mom had jokes.

  It fits you perfectly, Josh, she said:

  You never clean your closet, and

  that bed of yours is always filled

  with cookie crumbs and candy wrappers.

  It’s just plain nasty, son.

  But, as I got older

  and started getting game,

  the name took on a new meaning.

  And even though I wasn’t into

  all that jazz,

  every time I’d score,

  rebound,

  or steal a ball,

  Dad would jump up

  smiling and screamin’,

  That’s my boy out there.

  Keep it funky, Filthy!

  And that made me feel

  real good

  about my nickname.

  Filthy McNasty

  is a MYTHical MANchild

  Of rather dubious distinction

  Always AGITATING

  COMBINATING

  and ELEVATING his game

  He dribbles

  fakes

  then takes

  the ROCK to the

  glass, fast, and on BLAST

  But watch out when he shoots

  or you’ll get SCHOOLed

  FOOLed

  UNCOOLed

  ’Cause when FILTHY gets hot

  He has a SLAMMERIFIC SHOT

  It’s

  Dunkalicious CLASSY

  Supersonic SASSY

  and D

  O

  W

  N right

  in your face

  mcNASTY

  Jordan Bell

  My twin brother is a baller.

  The only thing he loves

  more than basketball

  is betting. If it’s ninety degrees

  outside and the sky is cloudless,

  he will bet you

  that it’s going to rain.

  It’s annoying

  and sometimes

  funny.

  Jordan insists that everyone

  call him JB. His favorite player is

  Michael Jordan, but he

  doesn’t want people to think

  he’s sweating him.

  Even though he is.

  Evidence: He has one pair

  of Air Jordan sneakers

  for every month

  of the year

  including Air Jordan 1 Low

  Barack Obama Limited Editions,

  which he never wears.

  Plus he has MJ sheets, pillowcases,

  slippers, socks, underwear, notebooks,

  pencils, cups, hats, wristbands,

  and sunglasses.

  With the fifty dollars he won from a bet

  he and Dad made over whether

  the Krispy Kreme Hot sign was on (it wasn’t)

  he purchased

  a Michael Jordan toothbrush

  (“Only used once!”) on eBay.

  He’s right, he’s not sweating him.

  HE’S STALKING HIM.

  On the way to the game

  I’m banished to the back

  seat with JB,

  who only stops

  playing with my locks

  when I slap him

  across his bald head

  with my jockstrap.

  Five Reasons I Have Locks

  5. Some of my favorite rappers have them:

  Lil Wayne, 2 Chainz, and Wale.

  4. They make me feel

  like a king.

  3. No one else

  on the team has them, and

  2. it helps people know

  that I am me and not JB.

  But

  mostly because

  1. ever since I watched

  the clip of Dad

  posterizing

  that seven-foot Croatian center

  on ESPN’s Best Dunks Ever;

  soaring through the air—his

  long twisted hair like wings

  carrying him

  high above

  the rim—I knew

  one day

  I’d need

  my own wings

  to fly.

  Mom tells Dad

  that he has to sit

  in the top row

  of the bleachers

  during the game.

  You’re too confrontational, she says.

  Filthy, don’t forget to

  follow through

  on your jump shot,

  Dad tells me.

  JB tells Mom,

  We’re almost in high school,

  so no hugs before the game, please.

  Dad says, You boys

  ought to treasure your mother’s love.

  My mom was like gold to me.

  Yeah, but your mom

  didn’t come to ALL

  of your games, JB says.

  And she wasn’t the assistant school principal either,

  I add.

  Conversation

  Dad, do you miss playing basketball? I ask.

  Like jazz misses Dizzy, he says.

  Huh?

  Like hip-hop misses Tupac, Filthy, he says.

  Oh! But you’re still young,

  you could probably still play, right?

  My playing days are over, son.

  My job now is to take care of this family.

  Don’t you get bored sitting

  around the house all day?

  You could get a job or something.

  Filthy, what’s all this talk about a job?

  You don’t think your ol’ man knows

  how to handle his business?

  Boy, I saved my basketball money—

  this family is fine. Yeah, I miss

  basketball A LOT, and

  I do have some feelers out there

  about coaching. But honestly,

  right now I’m fine coaching this house

  and keeping up with you and your brother.

  Now go get JB so we won’t be late

  to the game and Coach benches you.

  Why don’t you ever wear your championship ring?

  Is this Jeopardy or something? What’s with the questions?

  Yeah, I wear it, when I want to floss. Dad smiles.

  Can I wear it to school once?

  Can you bounce a ball on the roof, off a tree, in the hoop?

  Uh . . . no.

  Then, I guess you’re not Da Man. Only Da Man wears Da Ring.

  Aw, come on, Dad.

  Tell you what: You bring home the trophy this year, and we’ll see.

  Thanks, Dad. You know, if you get bored

  you could always write a book, like Vondie’s mom did.

  She wrote one about spaceships.

  A boo
k? What would you have me write about?

  Maybe a book of those rules

  you give me and JB

  before each of our games.

  “I’m Da Man” by Chuck Bell, Dad laughs.

  That’s lame, Dad, I say.

  Who you calling lame? Dad says, headlocking me.

  Dad, tell me again why they called you Da Man?

  Filthy, back in the day, I was the boss, never lost,

  I had the sickest double cross, and I kissed

  so many pretty ladies, they called me Lip-Gloss.

  Oh, really? Mom says, sneaking up on us

  like she always seems to do.

  Yeah, you Da Man, Dad, I laugh,

  then throw my gym bag in the trunk.

  Basketball Rule #1

  In this game of life

  your family is the court

  and the ball is your heart.

  No matter how good you are,

  no matter how down you get,

  always leave

  your heart

  on the court.

  JB and I

  are almost thirteen. Twins. Two basketball goals at

  opposite ends of the court. Identical.

  It’s easy to tell us apart though. I’m

  an inch taller, with dreads to my neck. He gets