Swing Read online

  ourselves, running her fingers through my hair in a way

  that sends shudders from my ceiling to my floor.

  Yeah, yo! Paint a picture for me, pun intended, he says,

  winking at me for the third and hopefully last time.

  Art is

  looking into

  Mona Lisa’s eyes, I say,

  showing them

  da Vinci’s masterpiece

  on page 27,

  and daring her

  to look back

  into your soul.

  Walking the midnight

  sky tightrope

  and dancing inside

  the Red Square, tempting fate.

  Watching Venus de Milo

  rise out of sculpted marble,

  whisper your name

  as you tell her

  your deepest-held

  secret.

  It’s Monet’s

  Impression, Sunrise

  carrying you away

  on a harbor of dreams

  that only God

  knows about.

  It’s being gilded

  in golden mystique

  so ancient, it’s new.

  It’s finding yourself

  under the spell of

  Gustav Klimt’s

  The Kiss,

  knowing you have

  your own masterpiece

  inside of you,

  to create the way

  you want to live

  if you dare

  run through

  the Undulating Paths

  to find

  your gifts.

  It’s knowing you have

  this one life,

  this one chance to do it

  your way

  before The Physical

  Impossibility of Death

  in the Mind

  of Someone Living

  leaves you too afraid

  to find out.

  Speechless Again

  They both stare

  at me

  like deer

  facing the headlights

  of a car

  that just came

  outta nowhere.

  Who are you? Walt says.

  That was beautiful, Noah.

  Shall I continue? I say, kinda feeling myself.

  Giddyup, Picasso.

  Primer Five

  Look at this, I say,

  showing them

  page 71,

  Salvador Dali’s famous

  Girl at a Window

  oil-and-watercolor

  painting.

  Tell me what you see.

  A girl with a big rump-shaker staring out the window,

  Walt says.

  You’re so crass, Walt! Sam says.

  Look deeper, I say, not looking

  at the painting,

  but at Sam,

  like I’ve been looking at her

  for seven years.

  Like I’ve been looking

  at everything

  in my world:

  The floor beneath us,

  solid oak

  like her brown eyes.

  The clock on the wall,

  slow, measured,

  like her walk.

  Look at the Dali, I say again.

  Really look at it.

  Tell me you do not see

  a woman

  looking for love

  in a lavender-blue house dress.

  Resting

  by the window.

  For a moment.

  In between the laundry.

  And the cleaning.

  And the dinner.

  Nah, yo, I don’t see that at all, Walt says.

  I think she’s waiting, Sam adds.

  Will y’all stop interrupting me, I’m on a roll.

  My bad, yo.

  Her name is Dream

  Dream imagines

  what her life would be like

  if she had a dance to go to.

  A man who moved

  to her music.

  And the people who pass by

  stop and watch.

  They listen

  to the girl at the window.

  Dream cannot see them.

  She only sees the sea,

  smells the hope,

  dances with each wave,

  takes her dreams closer

  to where they belong . . .

  Sounds like jazz to me, Walt says. There’s this song called

  Corcovado, “Quiet thoughts and quiet dreams/quiet walks

  by quiet streams/and a window that looks out on—”

  Dude, you’re still interrupting me.

  You cannot see her face, I continue,

  but you know

  it sings

  a song of melancholy

  for she will eventually

  pick up her damp dishcloth

  and return to the kitchen.

  To her life.

  Sam at the Window

  That is not a dishrag,

  Noah, Sam says.

  It is a scarf.

  This is what I see:

  There is a woman

  with curves that ripple

  in a taut, striped indigo dress.

  She is imprisoned

  by trust and longing.

  Everything is blue,

  even the new shoes

  her bare feet will not wear

  again.

  She is not waiting

  at the window

  for a man

  to kill

  her bliss.

  She’s waiting on zephyr.

  She’s waiting

  on the cool, calm kiss

  of summer

  to fly her to the moon.

  Which is why she has the scarf, right? I add, inspired

  with opportunity.

  Exactly, Noah! This is what I see, she says,

  and we are both silent,

  save the silent tears

  falling,

  until Walt does

  what Walt always does.

  I never thought I’d be saying this, but y’all are too deep for

  me. I feel like I’ve just made love, he says, cracking us all

  up. And I’m a virgin. Dayum, art is no joke. I’m gonna see

  if Divya just wants to see a movie.

  Opportunity

  In between

  batting cages,

  party planning,

  listening to Walt

  talk nonstop

  about how Divya

  smells like summer,

  about how Divya

  is getting a tattoo,

  about how Divya

  must love him, because

  she wants him to meet

  her parents

  when they come

  to visit

  next year,

  I spend

  the next week

  trying

  and failing

  to convince myself

  to let Sam know

  that I am

  her secret admirer.

  So, on Friday

  I show up

  to class

  an hour before

  anyone else

  to tape an

  anonymous love letter

  under her trig desk,

  only to discover

  at lunch

  that she and

  Stephanie Wilson

  switched desks.

  NOOOOO!

  At Lunch

  The entire cafeteria

  is buzzin’ and poppin’

  about the letter,

  about Sam’s secret admirer,

  about the lick.

  Wait, what lick?

  dear love

  your lips

  are two sonnets

  i like to link

  each line

  with rhyme

  and repeat.

  x

  is what I thoug
ht

  I typed.

  dear love

  your lips

  are two sonnets

  i like to lick

  each line

  with rhyme

  and repeat.

  x

  is what I actually

  typed.

  All the Things I Want to Say

  Sorry they found out,

  but is that the worst thing ever?

  Let them know.

  Let them laugh

  with envy

  at what love looks like

  between

  two stars

  inching

  toward sunrise.

  All the Things I Text

  1:14 pm

  Sorry they found out.

  They’re just jealous

  that someone loves you

  blindly and madly.

  1:14 pm

  That someone loves you

  enough to be

  anonymous.

  1:15 pm

  That someone loves you

  more than their own

  pride and ego.

  1:15 pm

  That someone loves you

  beyond compare,

  enough to take a chance

  in the dark.

  1:17 pm

  Sorry, Sam. Text me back.

  You’re still coming to the party

  tomorrow night, right?

  Texts with Sam

  11:11 pm

  Nothing’s real:

  Art. Love. Life.

  11:11 pm

  What do ya mean?

  11:12 pm

  My hopes

  have been mangled.

  11:12 pm

  I thought my admirer

  was real.

  But it’s all fake.

  11:12 pm

  Fake?

  11:14 pm

  Hello?

  11:16 pm

  Pretend love,

  like Cruz.

  Everything is pretend.

  The joke is on me.

  11:16 pm

  Maybe it

  was an accident.

  11:17 pm

  What, my life?

  11:17 pm

  Stop! Come on, Sam!

  11:18 pm

  I’m the joke

  of the school.

  11:19 pm

  I’m calling you.

  11:19 pm

  No thanks.

  I need to sleep this off.

  Good night.

  11:20 pm

  I’m sorry.

  You’re truly amazing.

  Too good for all this.

  11:23 pm

  You shouldn’t be sorry.

  You’d never make me

  look like an idiot.

  11:23 pm

  . . . .

  11:24 pm

  Thanks, Noah.

  I wish more guys

  were like you.

  Sweet dreams.

  The Party

  Walt’s Uncle Stanley Stanley

  and two other dudes

  pull up

  in a van

  stolen

  straight out

  of Scooby-Doo.

  They jump out

  in matching

  red velvet jackets

  with purple lapels,

  unload their instruments—keyboard,

  saxophone, double bass—and

  find a dark corner

  in the living room

  to do set up

  and jam, which, for now,

  involves Uncle Stanley Stanley

  blowing his sax, and

  moving his body

  like he’s been electrocuted

  one hundred thousand times.

  10:15 pm

  For the first hour

  and fifteen minutes,

  Walt and I

  are convinced

  no one is coming,

  because

  no one is here.

  But then

  they start rolling in,

  with cell phones clicking

  and bodies shoving me

  to the side

  like it’s not my house.

  These people,

  who I see every day,

  who are practically strangers,

  take over.

  Walt comes out with a tray of

  shrimp cocktail,

  fried chicken and biscuits

  from Popeyes,

  and some sort of punch

  that some guy,

  who I’ve never seen before,

  starts immediately spiking

  with a bottle

  from his backpack.

  10:29 pm

  When Divya sashays

  through the door,

  Walt abandons

  any sense of chill

  he’s acquired

  from Floyd’s School of Cool.

  He falls into her, practically

  knocking her over

  with a sloppy,

  nervous hug.

  Oh, this is gonna be fun!

  Love Is Love Is Love

  This sounds really familiar, Divya says, walking into the

  living room.

  It’s a Billie Holiday composition, Walt says to her.

  It sure is. WOW! You actually did it. A jazz trio. Nice

  touch, she says.

  That’s how I roll, he says. Are you pleased?

  Beyond. I have this record in the shop. Of course, you

  know what’s on the B-side.

  Of course.

  SWING, BROTHER, SWING, they both say in unison,

  high-fiving.

  I’ll leave you all to your Jazz Jeopardy moment.

  I’m sorry, Noah. Here, I made a salad for the party, she

  says, handing me a big bowl.

  Thanks, I guess.

  You excited about tonight?

  Yeah, should be a cool party. People are actually showing

  up.

  No, I mean, are you going to finally tell her?

  I shoot Walt a look of disgust that’s becoming all too

  frequent. Seriously, man, you told her too. Man, you

  suck!

  I think it’s pretty sweet, Noah, Divya says. It’s the kind of

  thing every girl wants. Real love.

  . . . .

  Love is love is love, Walt says, grinning and practically

  hiding behind her. You want something to drink, Divya?

  Indeed, I do. Something heavy, she says.

  . . . .

  Coffee or Dew, silly, she says.

  Whew! Walt says, ’cause I could never give my heart wholly

  and solely to a woman who imbibes. It’s a waste of brain

  cells, and who needs it when you have imagination. I want

  a woman who’s high on life.

  And then

  they just stare

  at each other

  like they’re enraptured,

  so I walk away

  to Uncle Stanley Stanley’s band

  jamming

  to the tune of

  the Austin Powers theme song.

  Blur

  People cozy

  on the couch

  on my patio

  up the stairs.

  Solo cups filled

  with punch plus.

  No one’s

  listening

  to the live

  elevator music,

  except Walt and Divya,

  which doesn’t faze them

  ’cause it’s their world

  right now.

  Still no Sam.

  10:45 pm

  A gang

  of baseball players

  led by Cruz

  staggers in from

  the backyard,

  where they’ve been

  testing the limits

  of decency

  in my pool.

  He chugs another beer

>   then screams

  to everyone:

  LISTEN UP!

  The Masquerade Is Off

  I LOVE YOU, SAM. YOU’RE THE LADY OF MY

  LIFE.

  he yells

  into Uncle Stanley Stanley’s mic

  like he means it,

  only Sam’s not even here.

  The crowd is dead silent.

  Except his teammates, who

  hoot and holler

  like he’s just hit

  another home run.

  I’m not your lady, remember? comes a voice

  from the front door.

  She’s here, standing

  strong like Athena,

  hands on her hips

  with a look

  on her face

  that says,

  I dare anyone

  to mess with me

  tonight,

  especially you, Cruz.

  She winks at me,

  and we both smile

  like something’s about to

  go down.

  The Myth

  I WROTE IT, Cruz hollers.

  I wrote the letter

  to let you know

  how much

  I do love you.

  Let me count the ways, he continues

  like he’s Shakespeare reincarnated.

  He licks his big,

  crusty lips,

  then begins to serenade her

  in a blotto voice

  with random clichés:

  You’re the apple of my eye.

  You’re the grass between my toes.

  You’re the toothpaste to my toothbrush.

  You’re the deodorant to my BO.

  WHAT THE HECK IS THAT! Walt yells out. Noah,