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  you hear this clown with his clichés?

  It gets real quiet again.

  Nobody claps.

  Nobody even laughs.

  Everyone looks at me.

  Nobody says a peep. Until . . .

  Sit down, joker! You didn’t write the letter, but I know

  who did.

  You do? Sam asks, turning around looking at Walt,

  and then me.

  Nerves

  I look at Cruz.

  I look at Sam.

  I look at the blank faces.

  The glaring time

  on the clock.

  I try not to let my lips

  become bricks,

  my tongue an anchor,

  my mouth a desert.

  Verve

  There’s this tune

  on the GO! album

  called Second Balcony Jump,

  which always reminds me

  of one of those old cowboy movies

  where a girl

  is getting harassed

  at the bar

  by some drunk,

  then a smooth, handsome cowboy

  with a thick mustache

  moseys in

  with his hat low

  over his eyes

  and utters a few

  slick words:

  Hey, partner, why don’t you leave the lady be,

  less like a question,

  more like an ultimatum,

  and the drunk fool will answer,

  I reckon this is none of your business, stranger,

  and clumsily pull out his six-shooter,

  at which point

  he will get shot dead

  between the ears

  by the handsome stranger,

  who will then

  ride off

  into the sunset

  with the lady

  on his arm.

  Tonight, you’re the star, I say

  to myself, and

  this is your movie.

  Writing the Story

  You will reach into your pocket. And pull out a folded

  piece of paper. You will open it. Because it is your destiny

  to open it. Because, if this were a movie, you would be

  the hunter. And if they led you to the frontier, you would

  demand the ranch. And if they let you on the ranch, you

  would own the farm. And if they let you own the farm,

  you would take the house. And if they let you in the

  house, you would take that white piece of paper, unwrap

  it. And go.

  And.

  Go.

  Reckoning

  Sam, I say, softly,

  the echo

  frightening.

  My breath quickens

  like I’m swimming

  from sharks,

  like I’m swimming

  for my life.

  And then

  I jump,

  an ocean spilling

  from my mouth.

  The Wave Is Coming

  Since the third grade,

  when you saved my life,

  I’ve marveled

  at the pristine

  masterpiece

  that is you.

  I am no Michelangelo.

  But you are my mezza fresco.

  This moment here

  is my primo canvas.

  I am not a superhero.

  Nor a superstar.

  Not Cruz or Superman.

  I am just

  a boy

  colored by the scent

  of a woman.

  I am not a painter, Sam.

  But I will paint you

  with kindness

  and passion.

  I, uh—I am X.

  Not because I don’t want you

  to know me.

  But because I’ve always wanted you

  to discover me.

  PROVE IT, LOSER! Cruz yells,

  speed-walking toward me

  like he’s up to bat

  in the bottom

  of the ninth

  with the bases loaded.

  So I reach into

  my pocket

  and pull out

  a pitch

  I’ve been waiting

  all my life

  to throw.

  Part 4

  Love for Sale

  Quiet

  owns the party

  again.

  Then everyone roars

  like I’ve won

  an MMA match—beat

  out the lone champ.

  Hope Cruz doesn’t pummel me.

  Hope Sam doesn’t leave me

  ringside, wounded

  and alone.

  Bewildered

  Eyes wide

  with hesitance

  and disequilibrium,

  she just shakes

  her head

  over and over

  while everyone stares.

  I look at her,

  Cruz looks at her,

  then me,

  then he frowns

  and just storms

  out of the house,

  looking beat

  for the first time

  in his life.

  She comes up to me,

  and I don’t know

  if she’s gonna smack me

  or kiss me,

  and now I can see

  the sun

  in her eyes

  shining on me,

  can feel

  her arms

  wrap themselves

  around me,

  so I do the same,

  and we hug

  tight

  like we’ve never

  done before,

  and I feel parts

  of her country

  I’ve never traveled to,

  and

  she whispers,

  It’s you.

  It’s me, I say.

  We Interrupt This Broadcast

  Let’s go outside, she says,

  holding

  my hand

  in hers

  and pulling me

  into a joy

  I’ve only

  ever dreamt of.

  But just before

  we exit,

  someone

  in the family room

  yells:

  OH, SNAP! WHAT’S HE DOING UP THERE?!

  It’s a bird,

  it’s a plane.

  No, it’s a wasted

  senior

  on the baseball team

  named Junior Wilson,

  who tries

  to take

  a selfie video,

  shirt off,

  while leaping

  over the railing

  upstairs

  onto the couch

  below.

  He Misses

  We’re crowded around

  Junior Wilson

  as he hollers out

  like a werewolf in pain,

  upstaging my night.

  My back, my neck, my femur. I can’t move, he hollers,

  while hitting the floor with both hands and squiggling.

  You’re moving fine, I say. I called an ambulance.

  He’s gonna be all right. He’s like Superman, Junior’s best

  friend, Will, brags. He jumped from a roof into a pool last

  year and only scraped his knees. I’ll take him to urgent

  care, if I need to. He probably just needs a brewsky to kill

  the pain.

  If you move him, Divya says, it will cause additional pain

  and permanent injury. We should wait for the EMTs.

  The sirens

  get closer

  by the second.

  Someone looks

  out the window

  and yells,

  POLICE! POLICE ARE HERE TOO!

  In less time

  than it took

  Jun
ior to jump

  from the balcony,

  the place empties,

  bodies mad-dashing,

  knocking over chairs,

  spilling drinks,

  tearing out

  the back door

  and into the woods

  like fugitives

  of the night,

  leaving me,

  Walt, Divya, Sam, Junior,

  and Uncle Stanley Stanley

  to face

  the music.

  Over

  The party was all Bossa

  and Nova

  until now.

  Knock, Knock

  Walt and Divya scramble

  to collect party evidence.

  Of course,

  all the cars out front

  give us away.

  The knocks get louder.

  I open the door.

  Please, come in, I say to the EMTs. Junior’s over by the

  couch, I say, pointing to Junior Wilson, who’s grimacing

  and holding his leg.

  Nightmare

  Coming up

  my walkway

  behind

  the EMTs

  are two police officers,

  and Cruz,

  with his hands

  behind his back.

  BUSTED

  Young man, is this your house?

  Yes, sir, I answer.

  I’m going to need you to fill me in on what happened.

  WHY DO YOU HAVE HIM HANDCUFFED? Sam

  yells, trying to run past me, but I hold her back.

  That’s our friend, I say.

  We got a call about a loud party going on here. Are your

  parents around?

  LET HIM GO, Sam yells.

  We found your friend putting a flag on a car window,

  he says, pushing Cruz down on his knees. It’s a federal

  offense, what he’s been doing.

  I’m assuming you’re being hyperbolic, ’cause putting a flag

  on a car is not a crime, Walt says.

  It wasn’t me, Cruz says, visibly shaken.

  So maybe you should let him go. Like Noah said, he’s a

  guest.

  Was there a party here?

  Sirs, we were having a get-together, Divya interjects.

  Tea and jazz music. See the band right there? she adds,

  pointing through the window to Uncle Stanley Stanley’s

  band, which is, oddly, still playing.

  Why are all these cars parked out here? one of the police

  officers asks us.

  One of them is my truck. I was taking the flag off of it. I

  wasn’t doing anything wrong, you feel me? Cruz says.

  And why are y’all so concerned about the flags? It’s just

  art, right? Sam says.

  Yeah, I say, feeling the tension in the air, and not wanting

  Sam to face it alone.

  It’s because he’s black and in this neighborhood, isn’t it?

  Sam asks, less like a question, more like a fact.

  Look, we don’t have a problem with you. Let’s not escalate

  this.

  Your lack of imagination is the only thing that could

  escalate this. You probably think he’s in a gang or

  something, right? Walt asks, making things even more

  tense, before Divya pulls him back inside the house.

  Was he at the party? the other police officer asks me.

  There wasn’t really a party, sir, I lie. Just some kids

  hanging out, listening to jazz. But he’s telling the truth—

  that’s his truck.

  How did he get hurt? the officers ask, pointing to Junior

  Wilson, who’s being carted out on a stretcher.

  . . . .

  Look, we can answer questions here, or down at the

  station.

  No one says anything,

  not just because we know

  there’s no reason

  to take us down

  to the station,

  but because

  we’re all afraid.

  They Pick Cruz Up, Unlock His Cuffs, Shove Him Toward Us

  I’d advise you all

  to go back

  in the house,

  cancel any plans

  you have

  for your little tea party,

  and if you see

  or hear anything

  to do with

  this flag business,

  you call us.

  You feel ME?!

  Men in Blue

  Police officers

  don’t say freeze

  like they do

  in the movies.

  They just make you

  freeze in a fear

  cloaked

  in deep, dark dread.

  And they don’t

  look menacing

  all the time.

  Some look like

  they might actually

  be a little gentle,

  a little on the kind side.

  But then

  there’s a gun

  pinned to their hip,

  that makes your heart pound

  so loud,

  your ears burst.

  And you’re not sure

  what to do,

  or what to say,

  or how to move.

  What if it’s

  the wrong move?

  Some look so stern,

  like they don’t

  have emotions

  or a heart

  that beats red.

  But you wonder

  if they might

  smile when they’re home

  with their own families,

  playing with their own kids.

  Like the guy in front of me.

  He has no expression,

  but under his straight lips

  and steely stare,

  someone must make him smile,

  someone must make him love.

  He loves somebody.

  He’s gotta love somebody.

  And I hope he remembers

  somebody loves us too.

  They leave us all with a warning

  that almost feels

  like a threat.

  They leave

  as if nothing

  has happened.

  But we all know

  something has.

  We stand

  on the front porch

  confused,

  confounded,

  a little terrified.

  But no one shows it

  more than Cruz,

  who looks like

  he was

  beat up

  and left for

  the wolves.

  There is an inescapable

  fear in his face.

  A dejected hero.

  Almost like

  a lost boy

  in the dark.

  He doesn’t make eye contact

  with any of us,

  just crawls away

  on both legs.

  You should take him home, I say to Sam, not because

  I want you to go with him,

  but because he obviously shouldn’t drive

  and he obviously is broken up

  right now, we all are,

  and this is just the worst,

  and you’re the best—

  No, you’re the best, Noah, she says, kissing me

  centimenters from

  my lips,

  then going after

  Cruz.

  Tomorrow?

  The police lights

  fade into the distance,

  just like Sam,

  as I watch her

  hurry down

  my driveway

  to console Cruz.

  They hop

  into her car,

  and I hear

  the sad sound

  of leaving


  as my stomach

  swallows

  the longing whole.

  I have no way of knowing

  what will happen,

  and if tonight

  will mean anything

  tomorrow.

  I want to crawl back

  into the house,

  find my covers,

  hide under them

  until next year,

  or the next.

  What have I done?

  Why did I let HIM win again?

  I walk past Divya and Walt

  curled up on the couch,

  leg to leg,

  arm to arm,

  like two starfish.

  The band finally stops, and

  we all move into the kitchen,

  listening

  to classical music,

  eating fried chicken,

  leftover biscuits,

  and not saying

  a single word

  until we hear

  something crash

  in the living room.

  Intruder

  Shhh . . . Don’t talk. Don’t move, Walt says, grabbing

  a salad utensil,

  as if he can protect us

  with a wooden spork.

  We huddle,

  slowly ease our way

  into the living room

  to see, floating out there

  like a living ghost

  right next to

  my mom’s prized

  (and now broken)

  elephant,

  Moses Jones—

  Walt’s big brother.

  Suite for Jazz Orchestra No. 2

  are the first words out

  of Mo’s mouth.

  We stand there

  dumbfounded

  for a millisecond,

  until Walt flies

  toward his brother,

  and grabs him tight.

  MO!!!

  I see his eyes

  as he hugs Walt back.

  They’re vacant,

  like his body

  left his soul

  back in Afghanistan.