Booked Read online

two-hour special class

  that your mom signed you up for

  that you can’t wait

  to get to

  because you get to spend

  two hours

  in the same room

  with April.

  Can’t today, you lie.

  Gotta catch up

  on some homework.

  At Miss Quattlebaum’s School of Ballroom Dance & Etiquette

  the boys

  must address

  the girls

  as Milady.

  Milady, may I take your coat?

  Milady, may I please have this dance?

  Milady, sorry my hands are clammy!

  After you learn

  how to properly

  shake hands,

  (Firm, but gentle. Not limp,

  like a wet noodle. Up and down,

  for two to five seconds.)

  Quattlebaum chooses dance partners.

  When she gets to you,

  there are two girls left:

  April, and a girl with chronic halitosis.

  Guess who you get?

  Yuck.

  Chivalry

  You plan to open the door for April

  but the guy in front of you presses PUSH TO OPEN.

  Still, she smiles your way, and you do the same, till

  you see your mom out front, in the car, waiting

  to embarrass you.

  PLEASE. DON’T. BLOW. THE. HORN.

  Hi, Nick.

  Uh, hel . . . lo, uh, April

  That was a fun class, wasn’t it.

  . . .

  Sorry we didn’t get to dance tonight.

  Uh . . . yeah . . . I . . . uh.

  Do you want my numb—

  BEEEEEEEEEEEEP

  BEEEEEEEEEEP

  BWONNNNNNNK!

  Hi, I’m Nick’s mom, nice to meet you, Mom screams out

  the passenger window as you jump in.

  Hi, Mrs. Hall.

  Hello, darling, what’s your—

  Mom, stop. Bye, April. Please Mom, drive. ARGGH!

  The Pact

  Ninth grade is five months from now

  when you and Coby have vowed

  to have a girlfriend or die.

  Ever since first grade

  you and Coby

  have been as tight

  as a pair

  of shin guards.

  Star footballers and

  always teammates, until now.

  Even though

  you’re on the same

  indoor soccer team

  (which is cool),

  for the first time ever,

  you play for different

  travel clubs

  (which is not).

  See, you both tried out

  for the Under 15.

  You made the A team.

  He didn’t.

  But there was no freakin’ way

  the GREAT Coby

  was playing

  on a B team.

  So his mom drove him

  thirty miles to try out

  for another club,

  and now

  the most dangerous player

  on the rival soccer club

  also happens to be

  your best friend.

  Best Friend

  Coby Lee

  is from Singapore. Sorta.

  He was born there, like his dad, but

  his mom’s from Ghana,

  which is where he learned fútbol

  before they moved

  here.

  All before

  Coby turned five.

  You absolutely love soccer.

  But Coby’s married to it.

  Committed like breathing

  to it.

  It’s all he talks

  and thinks about.

  In math class

  he made a pie chart

  of the winningest

  World Cup

  jersey numbers

  of the past fifty years.

  Half of his room

  is painted

  red and gold

  with cool posters

  of the Ghana Black Stars.

  The other half,

  red and white

  with posters of

  the Singapore Lions

  plastered

  on the walls.

  He’s even got

  a ball

  autographed

  by Essien

  who he met

  on his last trip

  to Ghana.

  Unfortunately,

  you rarely see

  any of this

  because

  your best friend’s room

  always smells

  like skunk pee

  and funky freakin’

  feet.

  Bragging Rights

  After practice

  you’re psyched

  to call Coby

  and brag

  about the awesome letter

  your coach read

  to the team,

  wishing you could

  see the look

  on his face

  when you drop

  the news.

  Instead, what drops

  is your mouth

  when he laughs

  and says,

  Yeah, we got one too.

  The Letter

  Dear Coach,

  Your team is invited to compete

  in the Dr. Pepper Dallas Cup,

  the renowned world youth soccer tournament.

  Since 1980, the Dallas Cup has given

  talented and up-and-coming players

  the opportunity to compete against

  marquee teams from across the globe.

  Notable alumni include David Beckham,

  Real Madrid’s Chicharito, and the former NBA

  champion Hakeem Olajuwon.

  Many top college and pro scouts will be in attendance,

  as well as more than 100,000 fans.

  Congratulations on this honor, and

  we look forward to hosting you

  this spring.

  Dad’s back in town

  which means

  you’re in his study

  surrounded by ten-foot walls

  lined with books.

  You’re thinking

  of April/Dallas/Anything

  to avoid

  reading

  the last few dreadful pages

  of this dreadful book.

  On a large red leather couch

  Dad lounges.

  You’re in a brick-hard

  cushion-less seat.

  Exercising. Your eyes.

  Bored.

  You sneak your phone out

  while he’s glued to

  some book by a guy

  named Rousseau,

  who, ironically,

  according to Wikipedia,

  is quoted as having said,

  I hate books.

  Trash Talk

  Nick, Dallas is gonna be insane, Coby texts.

  On fire like butane, you respond.

  My team’s coming through like a freight train.

  We’re taking off like a jet plane.

  Well, I’ve scored more goals than you.

  Well, I’m on the better team.

  We’re undefeated.

  So are we.

  I’m co-captain of my team.

  So am I.

  You know my ancestors invented soccer in China over four thousand—

  You’re from Singapore, dude.

  Nick, I don’t have time

  to school you

  on nineteenth-century migration

  from Southern China.

  The point is I’m the quickest

  striker

  in the league and

  on earth.

  IN YOUR MIND!

  I’m the fastest bro

  in the game.

  Co
by Lightning’s my name.

  In fact,

  I’m so quick

  I could probably

  catch myself.

  . . .

  Nick, you still there?

  PUT. THE. PHONE. AWAY, Nicholas

  and finish your reading.

  I’m finished, you lie.

  What’d you think?

  It was, uh, interesting.

  Put the phone on my desk, and complete your assignment.

  But, it’s late, Dad, and I’m tired, and I have school tomorrow.

  Do me a favor and stop complaining about trying to be excellent.

  Whatever, you mumble.

  What did you say?

  Nothing. I need to use the bathroom.

  Then go. And bring me a pillow from the guest room.

  Why?

  Because I need a pillow.

  You’re sleeping down here?

  I am. Now, hurry up. We still have to go over our words.

  Your words, you mumble on your way out.

  Trouble

  Coby

  comes up

  to you

  at lunch

  and asks

  if you knew the twins

  were back

  at school.

  Then

  he asks

  if you knew

  one of ’em

  was in the library

  talking

  to April.

  Dean and Don Eggelston

  are pit-bull mean

  eighth grade tyrants

  with beards.

  They used to

  play

  soccer

  with you

  and Coby

  till they got kicked

  out of the league

  for literally tackling

  opponents

  and then,

  get this,

  biting them.

  Fists of Fury

  The twins live

  down the block

  from Langston Hughes

  Middle School of the Arts,

  which is why they get to go here,

  since the only art

  they’re interested in

  is pugilism,*

  as evidenced by

  the flaming-red boxing gloves

  they sometimes sneak

  into school

  to punch

  other kids with

  (which is how they ended up

  at the Alternative Behavior Center,

  or the ABC, for the past year).

  The library door

  swings open

  just as you and Coby arrive.

  The twins grit hard.

  Hey, PUNK, Don says,

  emphasizing punk, pushing

  you to the ground and

  stepping on

  your backpack.

  They stare Coby down,

  like they’re gonna do something.

  He stares back.

  Don’t let me catch you with my girl, Dean says

  to you, laughing, then kicking your

  bag again, before leaving,

  and never saying a word to Coby,

  because even though

  Dean and Don are mean dogs,

  always out for blood,

  and prone to bite,

  they only bark

  at Coby.

  When you walk inside

  the library

  April waves

  from the back corner,

  but before you can wave back,

  Mr. MacDonald,

  the librarian,

  jumps in front of you,

  holding

  a hardcover book

  in his colossal left hand,

  a neon green bowling ball

  in his right,

  and sporting

  a way-too-big 4XL tee

  that reads:

  Irony: The Opposite of Wrinkly

  Welcome to the Dragonfly Café

  Here fellas, take a book.

  Uh, no thanks, Mr. MacDonald. We just came in to—

  To join Nerds and Words? Excellent, Nick. We could use some boys in our book club.

  Maybe another time. I don’t really do books.

  It’s a quick read­—try it out this weekend.

  Can’t, Mr. Mac, we got a futsal* tournament.

  A book brawl tournament?

  Futsal.

  Your foot’s all permanent?

  . . .

  I heard about that thing in Ms. Hardwick’s class. You know I’m the king of malapropisms.

  Uh, o-kay.

  What’s up with the bowling ball, Mr. Mac?

  Big game this weekend too. Got to get my match-play mojo on.

  I don’t even know what that means.

  So, Coby, you want to join the book club?

  Pass, Coby says, laughing. Maybe if you changed the name to Books and Babes I might join.

  Let us see what’s in your dragonfly box and we’ll join, you say, before

  The Mac starts,

  get this,

  rapping:

  Hey, DJ, Drop That Beat

  The Mac drinks tea

  in a dragonfly mug.

  On the library floor

  is a dragonfly rug.

  The door is covered

  with dragonfly pics,

  ’cause Skip to the Mac

  is dragonfly sick.

  Sometimes I wear

  a dragonfly hat.

  Got dragonfly this

  and dragonfly that.

  Around my room

  are dragonfly clocks.

  But please don’t touch

  my dragonfly box.

  ’Cause if you do

  I might get cross.

  Respect the Mac,

  Dragonfly Boss!

  Skip MacDonald

  The Mac

  is a corny-joke-cracking,

  seven-foot

  bowling fanatic

  with a reddish mohawk

  who wears funny T-shirts

  and high-top Converse sneakers.

  He used to be a rap producer,

  but now

  he only listens to

  wack elevator music, because, he says,

  hip-hop is dead.

  When I ask him

  who killed it,

  he says: Ringtones and objectification.

  Which is reason #1

  why he left the music business

  at age twenty-nine,

  to become,

  get this,

  a librarian?!

  Reason #2 is

  the brain surgery

  he had

  two years ago

  that left him

  with a scar

  that runs across his head

  from his left ear to his right.

  But he’s the coolest adult

  in our school, and

  to prove it, he’s got

  a Grammy Award

  for best rap song

  sitting right at checkout,

  in plain view

  for everyone to see

  and touch.

  Plus, he’s won

  Teacher of the Year

  more times than Brazil

  has won

  the World Cup.

  (And he’s not even a teacher.)

  So when he gets all geeked

  about his nerdy book club

  or breaks into some random rap

  in the middle of a conversation,

  most people smile or clap,

  because we’re all just happy

  The Mac’s still alive.

  Huckleberry Finn-ished

  Great discussion today, class.

  I’m sure you all see why

  Mark Twain is one

  of our greatest literary

  treasures, Ms. Hardwick says.

  With only five minutes left in class,

  it’s probable she’s forgotten
>
  the assignment

  she gave you,

  which means

  you’re off the hook.

  Tomorrow, we will begin

  another classic

  of children’s literature.

  One of my favorites,

  Tuck Everlasting.

  And your laughter gushes

  like an open fire hydrant

  ’cause you could have sworn

  You heard an F,

  Instead of T.

  I see our comedian is back.

  Would you like to share

  what’s so funny

  with the rest of the class?

  Uh, no thanks, I’m good.

  Winey, the know-it-all,

  a.k.a. Winnifred,

  the girl who beat you

  in the elementary school spelling bee,

  raises her hand:

  Ms. Hardwick,

  wasn’t Nick supposed to

  present a malapropism

  to us today? she whines.

  ARGGH!

  Thank you, Winnifred,

  Ms. Hardwick interrupts.

  Nick, here’s your chance to be funny.

  Were you able to find

  a malapropism

  in Huckleberry Finn?

  No, you say,

  handing her

  the assignment.

  I actually found two.

  Class ends

  when Ms. Hardwick

  reads your assignment

  then runs