Swing Read online

  from Lucy’s gut, things got a little awkward when Mom

  realized the vet tech wasn’t holding up her lingerie.

  Dang.

  Yeah. It’s an embarrassing story. But I’m starting to wonder

  if I’ll ever trust another guy because of it.

  Not all men are like that, Sam. Not my dad, not me.

  No, I know. It’s only the jerks who like me and my mom.

  Things happen, and sometimes people pick the wrong

  people.

  Maybe. Don’t ever tell anyone what I just told you, Noah.

  Promise.

  I promise.

  You don’t have any secrets, Noah. Never have. You’re a

  perfectly normal guy.

  . . . .

  King of Heartbreaks

  As I’m leaving,

  her phone rings.

  Again.

  Cruz.

  It’s definitely him calling.

  We both stare

  at the phone,

  at each other,

  at nothing

  and everything.

  Please, don’t answer, I think.

  He probably wants her back.

  Please, don’t answer.

  I see a sparkle of hope in her eyes,

  the feeling you get

  when there’s snow

  on the ground

  and you get an alert

  that school is cancelled.

  The promise of possibility.

  She’s going to answer.

  She’s. Going. To. Answer.

  Run back

  into his suffocating arms,

  and I’ll be eating

  ice cream by myself.

  Please, don’t answer.

  Text to Swing

  5:32 pm

  Swing, I’m leaving Sam’s house.

  Wanna hang?

  Where are you?

  Text from Swing

  5:39 pm

  The batting cage.

  Come watch the magic, bro.

  Baby Bonds is a machine.

  Ceiling lights

  beam down

  on Walt,

  and—Wait, what’s he doing here?

  Yo, Noah!

  Hey . . . Floyd.

  In between

  Walt’s mostly missed

  few hits,

  Floyd pitches

  a string

  of curveball metaphors.

  The Metaphors

  You’ve got to use your love muscle or it loses strength . . .

  Muscle has memory, just like your brain . . . Your heart

  is your greatest muscle. Without it, you miss the ball . . .

  You gotta reset . . . You need to think about what’s in

  your head and what’s getting in the way of the big hit . . .

  Relationships are the same way . . . If you strike out, you’re

  just plain doin’ something wrong. You’re not taking this

  thing seriously . . . A bat is like cupid’s arrow . . . You only

  have so many chances before you strike out . . . Ya know,

  a fly ball is like a relationship; once it catches air, your

  chances for a home run are pretty good . . . But, you can’t

  miss her signal. If you do, you need to reset. It’s up to you

  to hit the ball and run to first, slide into all the bases . . .

  You keep striking out, you need to stop and think, what am

  I doing wrong?

  What am I doing wrong, Floyd? I ask.

  Out of two hundred balls

  Walt hits forty.

  He’s getting better

  at the stance,

  at the swing,

  at the hit;

  and either Floyd’s metaphors

  are getting less worse

  by the minute

  or I’m starting

  to understand

  and believe his guru-ish.

  Floyd heard what you’re doing, bro.

  Doing? What do you mean? I ask him.

  He’s talking about your anonymous art thingies, Walt

  chimes in.

  You told him?

  He’s just looking out for you, bro. It’s all good.

  You suck, Walt, I say, as he smacks a pitch real good, to

  his surprise. And mine.

  Have you been listening to The Woohoo Woman?

  I tried to tell him to, Floyd.

  Shut up, Walt. I’ve been listening. In general.

  But you’re lying. And when you’re lying, you’re not

  listening.

  I’m not lying. I took your advice and wrote her.

  The art of the secret love letter is smooth. Floyd gives you

  an A plus for ingenuity and delivery, but an F minus for

  execution.

  What? Why? She loves them.

  Have you told her it’s you yet?

  Not exactly.

  He hasn’t, Floyd.

  What’s the point in winning her heart if she can’t hold

  yours in it?

  . . . .

  It’s time to write your own life. Let her get to know the real

  Noah and how he truly feels.

  I agree, Walt says.

  Floyd gets up

  in my face,

  so close,

  I can tell

  he doesn’t floss.

  Then he shoves

  his hand

  into

  my pants pocket.

  I squirm.

  Dude, what are you doing?

  Showing you the signal, making sure you don’t strike out.

  Write your life, Noah. Bring X to life, he says, grabbing

  my car keys.

  Let her know who you really are at heart, he says,

  pounding his heart with one hand and dangling my car

  keys with the other. You can have these back when Floyd

  sees you’re really trying. Walt, you’ll report back to me?

  Sure thing, cuz!

  Floyd, come on, man. How are we supposed to get home?

  Come to Dairy Queen for your ride when the mission is

  complete.

  Walt grabs his bat and glove, and follows his cousin.

  Hey, where are you going?

  I’m already on base. I got a girl. I’m riding with coach, he

  says, dapping Floyd, and

  following him

  to my car.

  Spur of the Moment

  On the walk home,

  while I daydream

  of Sam,

  I pass by

  Out with the Old

  and decide

  to stop in.

  Thrifting and Riffing

  The door dings,

  and Divya pops up

  from behind the counter

  with paper towels

  and Windex.

  Hey, you.

  Hey.

  Shopping alone today?

  I guess you can say that.

  Anything special you’re looking for?

  Inspiration.

  She laughs,

  adjusts her glasses.

  Well, make it fast, ’cause I close at nine.

  I need something that’ll make me move.

  Move?

  As in forward. Reach beyond myself, dig deep. I need to

  go, Divya. Like really GO!

  You need some Dexter.

  I’m not sure becoming a serial killer is the answer.

  No, silly, not that Dexter. Dexter Gordon. Best music ever,

  she says, walking over to the old record section. This is

  the only one we have of his, but it’s pure, unadulterated

  jazz genius. Inspiration on so many levels.

  You and Walt are obsessed with jazz.

  Great minds think alike, she says, handing me a Dexter

  album called GO!

  Wait, that’s actually the name of it, GO? Dang,
you’re

  good.

  It was his favorite album. Full of grace, pleasure, and

  confidence. Listen to it; it’ll make you wanna get up and

  GO!

  How much is it?

  Your money’s no good here. It’s on the house. Consider it a

  thank you.

  For what?

  For introducing me to Swing.

  You know no one seriously calls him that but you.

  It’s kinda cute. He asked me out on a date. Should I go?

  As long as he doesn’t take you to the batting cages.

  He’s there a lot. Pretty committed.

  Delusional too. You should go out with him.

  I’m thinking about it. I sort of like him. He’s not a crazy

  guy, is he?

  Over-the-top crazy, but the coolest guy I know. Unique,

  one-of-a-kind, you’ll-never-meet-anyone-like-him kind of

  crazy.

  I can dig that.

  Thanks for the record.

  GO get ’em, Noah.

  Ha.

  When I get home

  sitting

  on my front porch,

  with his eyes closed

  and music blasting

  from my Bluetooth speaker,

  is my best friend.

  What are you doing?

  Meditating, he says, with his eyes still closed.

  Sitting

  in the driveway

  is my jalopy.

  How’d you get the truck back?

  I vouched for you, plus he was just funnin’.

  Thanks, I say, grabbing the keys.

  What took you so long? It’s getting chilly.

  Had to make a stop.

  At Sam’s?

  The thrift shop, I say, and let it just hang

  in the air

  for a minute. Divya says hi, I add, walking

  into the house.

  What else did she say?

  Anything about me? he asks.

  No, I lie.

  Really?

  Just kidding.

  She said she thinks you’re cute.

  She said she you’re more mature than most guys

  your age.

  She said she’s going to see her family in India this

  summer.

  She said Billie Holiday’s voice is divine.

  She said Herbie Hancock is good, but he’s no Erroll

  Garner.

  She said she hopes you’re not a stalker.

  She said she was just joking.

  Anything else?

  Yeah, then she gave me this album, I say, showing

  off my gift.

  We listen

  like we’re in church, on

  bended knee, and our god

  is Dexter Gordon.

  Primer Four

  GO! is a roller

  coaster of emotions, a

  carousel of cool,

  twisting and turning,

  going up and up and up,

  so fast, so far, it

  shoots me like a

  cannonball, and when it comes

  down, I am in need

  of a parachute

  to brace my fall after getting

  so high off this groove.

  Speechless

  I have no words at this moment.

  What do you mean?

  Ask Yo Mama!

  Ask yours.

  No, Langston Hughes.

  Deciphering your riddles is exhausting.

  Ask Yo Mama is the name of an epic breakdown of jazz

  that Langston Hughes wrote.

  Oh.

  You get it. You. Finally. Get. Jazz. The student has become

  the master.

  It’s a good album.

  It’s a great album.

  By the way, I say on my way up the stairs to my room,

  Sam and Cruz broke up.

  WHAT?! Dude, you should have led with that. Tell me

  what happened.

  Maybe tomorrow. I’m going to bed.

  By the way, Langston Hughes died in New York on May

  22, 1965. He had complications from prostate cancer, then

  BAM! A dream interred.

  . . . .

  Get it?

  Good night, Swing.

  All Night Long

  When I wake up

  after dreaming

  about her,

  I hear Dexter Gordon

  still spinning

  with static sweetness

  on the record player.

  I think about the way

  track four, “Love for Sale,”

  makes me feel,

  makes me shake

  and bump and thump

  inside and out.

  How I could listen

  to it over and over again.

  How if Sam wanted,

  I’d give her all my love

  for free.

  Tie it up in a bow

  and overnight it

  to the front door

  of her heart.

  And as if I’m still

  hovering between

  this world

  and the dream world,

  I hear her laugh

  coming from someplace.

  I creep down the stairs,

  and rub my eyes twice,

  because I see that I

  might not be dreaming,

  that she and Walt

  are talking and laughing

  like it’s four o’clock

  in the afternoon.

  What are you doing here?

  Is that the way we greet our oldest and dearest friends,

  Noah? Sam says, while Walt looks on with a big,

  suspicious smile written all over his face.

  Hey, Sam.

  Hey, Noah.

  What’s going on here? I ask.

  After you bailed on me last night, I called her and she

  sounded down, so we talked for three hours, Walt says.

  Want some eggs?

  I thought you didn’t like talking on the phone.

  Well, mostly he listened. It was really special. I see why this

  older girl likes our dude, Noah. He’s a good listener.

  Yeah, I say, shaking my head.

  And then I invited her to breakfast, ’cause again, you

  bailed on me, and I needed someone to help me solve a

  problem.

  Noah, your big party is in a week, and it’s like you guys

  haven’t done anything.

  So, you’re here to help plan the party?

  Sam to the rescue. It’s gonna be the bash of the year, she

  says. Plus, I need something to get my mind off him.

  . . . .

  But that’s not even the biggest problem, Walt says.

  Our dude here has gotten himself into a bit of a pickle,

  Noah. Divya is taking him out on a date.

  And why’s that a problem?

  Because I’ve never been on a date, so Sam’s been schooling

  me on what to do, how to carry myself, and all that jazz.

  Oh.

  But there’s one thing I can’t help him with.

  Yeah, Divya’s taking me to a museum, and it’s one filled

  with the one thing I don’t know anything about. Art.

  So, how can I help?

  Didn’t you used to paint, like, a bunch of portraits back in

  third grade? he asks, winking at me.

  Yeah, I remember that too, Sam says. In fifth grade, we

  went to the children’s museum on a field trip. Didn’t you

  make a collage during the arts and crafts lesson and—

  And the teacher framed it and put it in our class. Dude, you

  had some skills back then. Too bad you gave it up, he says,

  winking again.

  Yeah, too bad, I add.

  But you loved it, and I remember you used to
check out

  a lot of art books from the library, so I just figured you

  remembered a lot of that, and maybe you could give me a

  quick lesson, he continues.

  Whose book is this? Sam asks, holding up

  my large, thick copy of Art Magna:

  The World’s Greatest Art, with

  a suspicious smile

  that I can’t ignore.

  Walt and I both look

  at each other,

  him with a smile,

  me with a frown,

  ’cause once again

  he’s throwing me

  a curveball

  that I can’t hit.

  That’s my mom’s, I lie. Dad gave it to her for her birthday.

  And I’m not even into art that much anymore, guys.

  Noah, just give him something that’ll make him sound

  intelligent, informed. C’mon, help Swing out.

  Oh, so you’re calling him that now too?

  It’s growing on me.

  Yeah, help a brother out, Noah. Tell me about art.

  Art is expression of human creativity, skill, and

  imagination, all at the same time, typically in a visual

  form such as a painting or sculpture, that uses beauty to

  evoke powerful emotion, I dictate from the dictionary

  app on my phone.

  Seriously, Noah, Sam says, we could have done that by