Swing Read online

sculptures.

  . . . .

  Venus de Milo, I say.

  SCORE for Noah, Divya says, holding my hands up.

  Ladies and gents, we have a new grand champion.

  Not fair. I thought this was jazz trivia, not art.

  It’s all related, Mr. Swing.

  It’s actually a misnomer. The sculpture should have been

  called—

  Aphrodite of Milos, Divya interrupts.

  Because Venus is the Roman goddess of love, and

  Aphrodite is the Greek goddess, I finish.

  Wow, Noah, you know your art.

  I dabble. Plus, she’s beautiful and confident and assured

  and full of passion.

  So, you’ve been to the Louvre?

  No.

  Then how’d you see her?

  In a book.

  You gotta see it in person. It’s breathtaking.

  Have you been to the Louvre?

  When I was nine, we went to Paris. I remember like it was

  yesterday. The Mona Lisa is also there. Art can really

  inspire you to embrace the preciousness of life.

  Agree completely.

  Can we get back to jazz, please, Walt says, looking a little

  irritated.

  Here, she says, handing him the Miles Davis album, this

  is for you, my treat. It’s one of my faves. Could be your

  autobiography too, Mr. Swing, she says, winking at him.

  An hour later

  we leave

  with her phone number

  written

  on the sweaty palm

  of his left hand,

  and three jazz albums,

  including

  the one he keeps

  staring at,

  the one

  she gave him:

  Birth of the Cool.

  The Only Thing That Can Shut Walt Up

  We don’t talk about

  the flags

  we see in yards

  and on windshields

  of parked cars.

  We don’t talk about

  the three-legged dog

  that runs

  into the street,

  almost getting hit.

  We don’t talk about

  the English paper

  due tomorrow

  at 9:00 in the morning.

  We don’t talk about

  dead celebs

  or any of Walt’s obsessions.

  We don’t even talk about

  his brother’s return, or

  his mom’s impending wedding.

  In fact, we don’t talk

  about anything at all,

  because Walt is out of his mind

  over a goddess

  who is way smarter

  and way older

  than he is.

  Out of His Mind

  DOPAMINE!

  Huh?

  Dopamine.

  What are you talking about, Walt?

  I’m gonna marry her.

  Dude, you just met her.

  It only takes between ninety seconds and four minutes

  to decide if you’re into someone. We call it love, but it’s

  really just the chemical dopamine. It stimulates desire and

  reward by triggering an intense rush of pleasure. It has

  the same effect on the brain as taking cocaine. I’m high on

  Divya Konar, Noah!

  You’re high on something.

  She’s coming to the party. Which means we’ve got work to

  do. Need to make it the best party ever. For both of us!

  So, we’re definitely gonna stick with the whole jazz-

  music-at-a-house party?

  Yeah, I’m gonna ask my Uncle Stanley Stanley to bring his

  trio.

  He’s got two first names.

  Yep, but don’t mention it—he’s real sensitive about his

  names.

  I don’t know about this.

  Go bold or go home.

  Go home.

  So, you’re down with it?

  Do I have a choice?

  When we get home

  I FaceTime

  Mom

  and Dad

  while Walt climbs to

  the attic

  looking for

  a turntable

  I don’t even think

  we have.

  I FOUND IT, he screams from the attic, and

  for the next three hours,

  we listen

  to the same record

  over and over.

  And over.

  134 minutes

  of another street,

  another town,

  a different country,

  a newfound planet.

  A place where

  jazz is king,

  where the mind is all lit,

  and what Swing calls

  a transcendence of sorts.

  And I do kinda feel it,

  like maybe the rhythm

  gets me.

  So, I draw.

  You hear cool, Noah?

  I hear way past cool, Walt.

  I hear watermelon

  on a summer night.

  I hear

  the sound

  of a million stars

  singing

  of pristine love.

  I hear a trumpet

  serenading

  lovers.

  Corinthian and

  Annemarie dancing

  to an endless groove.

  You hear all that, Noah?

  Yeah, and I hear her.

  Who?

  Sam.

  Yeah?

  Yeah,

  and I want to dive into

  her smile, swim

  from one corner

  of her mouth

  to the other.

  Really?

  Really.

  . . . .

  What do you think? I ask, showing him my drawing.

  Dope.

  I’m doing it, I say, feeling confident.

  Doing what?

  I’m gonna give it to her.

  Part 3

  Second Balcony Jump

  Guess Who?

  Sam comes up to me

  at my locker.

  I got another one, she says,

  grinning with wonder

  like it’s Christmas morning.

  She tells me

  who she thinks

  her anonymous

  secret admirer

  is, but

  none of her guesses

  are me,

  which is a relief

  and a disappointment.

  Conversation

  It’s gorgeous. And thoughtful. And, whoever is doing this is

  smart and sexy.

  That eliminates ninety percent of the guys in this school.

  Maybe it’s a girl.

  Maybe.

  Whoever it is has me all up in my feelings.

  Yeah?

  Noah, I feel like a flower blossoming, and these letters are

  my sunshine.

  . . . .

  You want to see it?

  Sure, I say, smiling confidently, as if I didn’t draw it last

  night.

  Close, But No Cigar

  I gave it to her.

  And?

  And she loved it.

  So, the cat’s out of the bag?

  Not exactly.

  That sounds suspicious, bro.

  Let’s say the cat’s peeking.

  . . . .

  I gave it to her, but haven’t told her it’s me yet. One step

  at a time.

  I know just what you need.

  I hope it’s not Dairy Queen.

  Ha!

  Primer Three

  Listen to this, Noah, he says, streaming

  more jazz

  from his phone.

  Jazz is

  an u
npredictable friend,

  full of love and rage,

  whimsy and woe.

  It’s fire and ice.

  It’s all that, huh? I say, with a little sarcasm.

  Feel it, Noah.

  Live inside the rhythm.

  Follow the pulse.

  To win over Sam’s heart,

  you gotta become

  fire and ice,

  like jazz!

  Huh?

  Tell me what you hear!

  I hear

  giant steps

  across pavement,

  running for life

  in New York City

  or Chicago,

  or some big city,

  bolting

  down a street,

  trying to get away

  from evil.

  Escaping

  down an alleyway

  or a crowded street,

  into a hotel lobby,

  where a beautiful girl

  walks in

  with all the confidence

  in the world.

  Good! Okay, what else, Noah?

  The girl grabs my hand,

  we both run

  in the opposite direction

  from where I came.

  We keep running

  until we’re almost out of breath,

  hoping we’re safe, free.

  Then, we fall, exhausted,

  our hearts pounding

  to the point of explosion,

  but evil returns

  and I’m forced

  to fight,

  to try

  and save her.

  Yo, this is crazy stuff, Swing!

  I got a headache.

  But was it a good run.

  I guess. So was I close? What’s the tune about?

  No idea—it’s a Charles Mingus tune called “All the

  Things You Could Be by Now If Sigmund Freud’s Wife

  was Your Mother.”

  Seriously, Sigmund Freud, the shrink? Bananas! Hey,

  how’d he die?

  Mingus died of ALS, on a Friday. Seems like a lot of jazz

  musicians die on Fridays.

  No, Freud. How’d he die?

  Morphine overdose.

  He killed himself?

  Basically, yeah. But he had a doctor friend actually

  administer it.

  That’s crazy. Pun intended.

  It was a Saturday. September 23, 1939. Same day the

  Dodgers beat the Phillies 22–4. I bet that was a good

  game. Hey, I’m sure there’s a game on. Let’s get some

  popcorn and study the plays.

  I’m studying my eyelids, yo. Good night.

  Starbucks Fix No. 1,299

  I drop Walt off

  and park the car

  in the lot

  across the street.

  Seems the whole student body

  is in here.

  Everybody needs

  their midterm fix.

  When I get inside,

  Walt’s talking to—Wait, why is he

  talking to Cruz?

  Why are they laughing?

  What are they laughing about?

  I try to pretend like

  I don’t see them,

  but Walt waves me over

  before I can look

  away.

  Never Mix the Wrong Drinks and the Wrong Company

  We’re waiting for Walt’s

  ridiculous chai latte

  sprinkled

  with mocha caramel

  and elderberry syrup

  when Cruz says,

  I need your advice, Noah,

  then chugs

  an energy drink

  like a muscle-bound

  walking cliché.

  Awkward Conversation with Cruz

  You need my advice?

  Well, both of you. Whoever, he says, motioning his fingers

  to pull us in closer.

  What do you need? Walt asks.

  How do I close the deal with Sam—really close the deal?

  Close what deal? I ask with a lump in my throat, because

  I think I know what he means.

  You know what I mean. It’s home run time. Should I buy

  her flowers, bring her chocolate, sing her a song, make her

  a playlist, play with her hair?

  Filet-O-Fish and fries, she’ll love that, I say, knowing

  she’ll hate it, because she hasn’t eaten McDonald’s since

  fourth grade, when she found a fly in her fries.

  Really, Cruz says. You think so?

  Women are hard to figure out, Walt adds, winking at me.

  No rhyme or reason.

  True. Well, it’s going down tonight.

  Walt and I stand there

  for what seems like

  an awkward forever,

  staring silently

  into the haze

  of a caffeine fog

  with Cruz,

  until we’re saved

  by the barista,

  who screams

  out—

  BLACK LIVES MATTER!

  Last time I was here, I told them my name was Barry Bonds,

  Walt says, smiling and collecting his coffee mashup.

  Time before that it was Voldemort or Dump Trump, I can’t

  remember. Just depends on how I feel that day.

  So, you’re feeling like Colin Kaepernick?

  Noah, the struggle is real out here in these mean streets.

  Walt, you live in a gated community.

  We are all part of America. United in our values, in

  our belief that basic respect of life and humanity is a

  prerequisite for true democracy.

  You’re running for the office of president now?

  I’m running for the office of black boys are being killed and

  nobody seems to care.

  . . . .

  Anyway, enough of that, he says once Cruz is out of

  earshot. You better watch out.

  For what?

  Noah, Cruz is playing hardball.

  . . . .

  The window to your happiness is closing.

  I’m working on another love note, I say, handing him my

  latest.

  Squirrels and Lovers

  What in the world is this?

  What are you talkin’ about?

  I don’t remember seeing anything about squirrels in

  Corinthian’s letters.

  It’s a mashup. I mean, it was a magazine article I found.

  I’m doing what Floyd said to do. Painting her my own

  world. Crashing through the door of my own destiny.

  I hear ya, but you’re gonna chase her like a squirrel

  through Harlem? C’mon, yo!

  Well, it sounded romantic.

  You just half-colored the page black and weren’t

  intentional with design or even the words.

  That’s why it’s called a draft. I’m still working on it.

  This is trash.

  Why don’t you say how you really feel?

  It’s a disgrace to Corinthian.

  You know how difficult these pieces are? Art takes time.

  You can’t give her this.

  I said I’m worki—

  You can’t give her any iteration of this. I say start over.

  You wanna help?

  You’re the artist.

  C’mon, man.

  Can’t! Got a date.

  Seriously?

  Well, it’s a phone date. Divya and I are scheduled to talk

  in exactly, he says, ten minutes, and I need to practice.

  Practice?

  Because I suck at phone conversations. If I can’t see the

  person, I find it horribly unsettling to actually say stuff to

  them. And I end up talking too loud.

  It’s who you are, Swing. Be you. That�
�s what you would

  tell me.

  Disgusting

  I stay up

  ’til three am

  composing

  and cutting

  and pasting,

  and the next morning

  when I come downstairs,

  Walt has cooked breakfast,

  which is great

  ’cause I’m starving,

  and I love

  scrambled eggs,

  grits, and

  turkey sausage,

  but it’s also not so great

  ’cause now

  I gotta watch him

  mix it all together

  in a bowl and

  eat it.

  Conversation with Walt

  Breakfast smells good.

  You look terrible, man. Did you stay up all night reworking

  that horrid piece of art?

  Yeah, but I couldn’t figure it out. That’s art sometimes.

  That’s life sometimes.

  Can you turn the music down a tad? I’m still waking up.

  The wave is coming, Noah!

  Huh?

  That’s the song playing—“Wave”! Amazing, isn’t it?

  Hmmm. I wouldn’t call it amazing, but it’s decent.

  Decent? Yo, this is quintessential bossa nova.

  . . . .

  It’s Brazilian jazz.

  Oh. It kinda sounds like I’m on an elevator going up to