Swing Read online

  Everything’s not political.

  Actually, everything is. You either uphold the status quo,

  or you see what’s wrong and try to change it.

  . . . .

  Hey, look over there. Isn’t that ironic? she says, pointing

  at the two police officers

  removing

  the cluster

  of flags

  lined up

  like tombstones

  along the outfield fence.

  Stars and Stripes

  Like people

  in uniform,

  flags salute

  everywhere

  you look.

  They wave,

  reminding you

  this is America.

  They’re the biggest news

  to hit our town

  in years,

  subject of news broadcasts,

  letters to the editors,

  Sunday sermons,

  and daily gossip.

  Is it something suspicious

  or patriotic?

  Littering or

  liberty?

  It could be a terrorist or extremist group distracting us,

  mocking us before an attack, one of my classmates said

  last week.

  Who cares, another one offered.

  I say nothing.

  Are they really hurting anyone?

  I mean, it’s the flag.

  To me, it’s all just

  kinda insane,

  because no one can agree

  on why the flags are here,

  who’s planting them,

  and whether or not

  we should be

  happy or offended

  that they’re growing

  like dandelions.

  Batter Up

  After an inning

  of near-perfect pitches,

  Cruz struts

  up to bat.

  Sam wiggles

  in her seat,

  bending forward

  with a burst of pride.

  He hunches

  his upper back,

  shimmies

  his front leg,

  ready for a hit

  that’ll send the scouts

  chasing his tail.

  I hate that his swing

  is so slick,

  catlike.

  Smooth like velvet

  then lightning fast.

  But he misses.

  YES! I scream to myself.

  Sam hides

  her face

  in my shirt

  then peeks.

  He misses again.

  C’mon, babe, she whispers. He must be off tonight.

  It happens, I say, with

  a little burst

  of my own pride,

  and hope

  that he strikes out.

  But he doesn’t.

  He SLAMS one

  to Jupiter

  and everyone starts

  jumping and shouting,

  and the face

  that was in my shirt

  seconds ago

  is now

  in the air

  screaming, GO, CRUZ, GO!!!

  He slides into third base.

  At least it wasn’t

  a home run, I think,

  faking a smile.

  A Lonesome Ride

  After the game,

  Sam and Cruz

  take off

  like lovers

  eloping.

  I hop

  on a bus

  by myself,

  single

  and discouraged.

  On the way home,

  I sit

  in the last row, stare

  out the window,

  imagining

  the static stares,

  the glares

  from people

  wanting to know

  why I haven’t

  told her

  how I feel.

  Did the old guy

  sporting the applejack hat

  and bushy mustache

  just look up

  from his newspaper

  and shake his head

  in disgust

  at me?

  The sign above

  my seat

  reads In Emergency Break Glass.

  This is an emergency.

  I feel broken.

  Why haven’t I told her? WHY HAVEN’T I TOLD HER?!

  Why haven’t you told her? the old man asks, in my head.

  And don’t even think about breaking that window. It’s

  illegal. A federal offense.

  So is loving someone

  for this long

  and not doing something

  about it.

  Phenomenal

  Samantha “Sam” Worthington

  is a dancing, swaying, prowling contradiction.

  She is tough and kind.

  Confident and uncertain.

  Grounded, but if she had sparrow’s wings

  she’d soar off and probably never return.

  She does whatever she wants.

  To borrow a line from a book we read last year,

  She’s a woman, a phenomenally phenomenal woman.

  She sparkles.

  And I’ve been seeing stars

  ever since third grade

  when Zach Labrowski—the bus patrol, the dictator

  of the big yellow kingdom on wheels—

  told me to get out of his seat and I wouldn’t.

  So he punched me.

  I was the new kid who didn’t know The Rules.

  Out of nowhere came Sam.

  She pushed Zach Labrowski

  out of the seat, then

  squeezed in next to me

  and offered a tissue

  ’cause apparently there was a tear.

  Or maybe a couple.

  Her eyes were like two fiery sunsets,

  full of warmth and concern,

  and I kinda knew right then I would love her

  for the rest of my life.

  Phone Conversation

  Yo, what happened to you?

  My bad, Walt. I kinda got sidetracked.

  Who’s Walt?

  Huh?

  The name’s Swing, remember?

  Oh yeah, well, I’m sorry, Swing. I got caught up in

  something else.

  Successful people jump at opportunity and take

  advantage of it.

  Stop with the podcast stuff. It’s stupid.

  Actually, that was Sir Mix-a-Lot. I saw him on Ellen.

  . . . .

  So, why’d you bail on me?

  Sam and I went to the mall.

  WOOHOO! Are you serious? Why didn’t you lead with

  that?

  It was nothing. We just talked, and I helped her pick out

  some dresses for prom.

  Wait, you helped your soulmate pick out dresses to wear to

  prom with her boyfriend? On Valentine’s Day, no less?

  . . . .

  Are you even aware of how ridiculously muddled that

  decision was?

  Look, it all happened so fast.

  You’re fastly becoming her forever friend, and once that

  happens, there’s no upgrade available.

  Upgrade?

  Friendship is like the Great Wall of China, dude. Once

  it goes up, you’re never getting to the other side.

  . . . .

  We really need to go see Floyd. It’s getting crucial.

  Tomorrow.

  Tonight.

  Seriously, I just got home, and I haven’t eaten yet.

  And, Ms. Miller gave me until midnight to turn my

  paper in.

  Trivial details. We will eat at Dairy Queen. Ms. Miller

  extends extensions all the time. Just tell her you’ve been

  stressed ’cause your parents are going to Barcelona andr />
  you’ll be alone.

  I guess.

  Spain

  Each year,

  the International Hotel Association

  holds their week-long conference

  where hotel managers

  talk about hotels

  from sunup

  to sundown,

  then get drunk

  and post videos

  of horrible, late-night

  karaoke sessions.

  This year,

  it’s in Barcelona.

  My parents

  were chosen

  to represent

  the local chain

  of hotels

  they manage,

  and they’re staying

  an extra three weeks

  to celebrate Mom’s birthday

  on a twenty-one-day European cruise

  they asked me to join them on,

  and which I politely declined

  for obvious reasons.

  La Quinta

  Yo, let’s get a luxury suite at La Quinta and have a

  party. Throw the biggest jam of the year.

  How about there are no luxury suites at La Quinta.

  Doesn’t matter. We can do a poolside party. I’ll DJ,

  try to get my Aunt Barbara to make mini-quiches and

  wiener rolls.

  How about NO.

  What’s the point of having hotel moguls as parents if

  you can’t floss?

  They manage three hotels—they’re not moguls. Plus,

  nobody’s ever flossed at La Quinta.

  C’mon, Noah, they’re gone for, like, a month. In the

  history of child-rearing, nobody’s parents have ever left

  for a month. This is a historic moment. The universe is

  saying yes to us. We must represent for all kids, or this

  may never happen again. Ever.

  . . . .

  We must fast track cool. We must throw the dopest party

  imaginable.

  Not happening.

  Your loss.

  I can accept that.

  I’m on my way. Be ready.

  Fine.

  Tattoo

  Walt is sloth slow

  when it comes to

  going somewhere,

  primarily because

  of his hang-ups,

  or superstitions;

  like he can’t walk

  up or down

  the same side of the street

  on the same day,

  or in and out

  of the same door

  when he’s coming

  or going somewhere.

  Today is no different.

  I sit and wait, until

  my gangly best friend

  walks up in a muscle shirt

  with no muscles,

  wearing

  throwback headphones—playing

  jazz, no doubt—

  and something

  dark and blue

  affixed

  to the skin

  on his left shoulder.

  Inked

  WHAT. IS. THAT?

  I got a tattoo.

  When?

  When you bailed on me earlier, he says, peeling away

  the wrap to reveal . . . WHAT THE?!

  Dude, if you were going for the Tupac look, you

  missed terribly. They left off the T, and you need

  them to fix it ASAP before you get roasted over an

  open pit of hell at school come tomorrow.

  Nah, bro. It’s not a mistake. I didn’t want THUG Life.

  I wanted—

  HUG Life? Have you lost your mind?

  I haven’t. I am more enriched today than yesterday.

  Woohoo Woman has taught me more than I ever

  dreamed I could know about life and—

  Did your mom see it?

  Not yet, but my new soon-to-be, almost stepfather did.

  He took me to get it. We’re bonding. Hug Life. Get it?

  You’ve gone overboard.

  You must embrace life with a metaphorical hug, and

  sometimes a literal hug, to really squeeze the life juice,

  the goodness, out of living.

  I’m done.

  No, we’re just beginning. Dairy Queen, here we come!

  Wanna hug?

  Dairy Queen

  Walt struts in

  like this whole thing—

  our whole life—

  is a movie.

  And he’s the lead.

  He orders

  a garden salad,

  chili cheese fries,

  plus a Cappuccino MooLatté

  like he’s ordering

  vodka on the rocks.

  Please, don’t mix all three.

  Please, don’t, I say to him.

  His cousin Floyd swaggers

  in from the back

  with a smile

  bigger than Orion,

  locks that nearly drag

  the floor, and

  two huge front teeth

  as white as the shake

  freezing my brain.

  He takes a few orders,

  makes a few cones,

  then sits down

  across from us

  and starts nodding

  like he’s the principal

  and we just

  got sent

  to the office.

  Walt begins to talk,

  but Floyd shushes him,

  waves his finger,

  closes his eyes,

  and starts tying his hair

  into a bun.

  Apparently, weird runs

  in this family.

  Conversation

  Floyd’s got dates tonight, so let’s giddyup. What’s up,

  little cousin?

  Everything’s copacetic, Walt says.

  I see you’re still wearing those pop bottle glasses. Didn’t I

  tell you, the ladies only dig them if they’re fresh?

  I’m working on it, Floyd. I’m saving my paper for some

  nice frames the chicks will love.

  Hold on there, partner. Floyd cannot school you on your

  feminine consciousness if you’re using that language.

  Ladies, women, yeah, but never, EVER chicks. That’s

  sexist. Tell ’em, kid, he says, looking at me with one eye

  open.

  Yeah, I guess, I say.

  My bad, Floyd.

  You still listening to the podcast, right?

  Indeed.

  Good, ’cause that’s the textbook to a richer life for ya.

  Those sisters are preaching the gospel! The heart of a

  woman beats like a raindrop on a crag. You understand,

  right? he says, looking at both of us with his eyes wide

  open now. I nod my head, pretending like I do.

  I heard there’s a wedding. Floyd didn’t get an invite, but

  Floyd may crash it. You pumped, little cousin?

  Her guy wants me to be his best man.

  Well?

  It’s peculiar at best. At worst, creepy.

  Do you like him?

  I don’t dislike him.

  You talk to Uncle Albert?

  I haven’t talked to my dad in months. He’s got a girlfriend

  in Texas.

  Giddyup, then.

  . . . .

  Your future stepdad is a lucky man. Aunt Reina was

  always fine as full-bodied wine.

  . . . .

  . . . .

  . . . .

  What? It’s not like Floyd’s trying to Oedipus your mom . . .

  Anyway, what’s up with you guys?

  I keep telling my best bro, Noah here, that he needs to hear

  from you how to talk to a chi—woman. From a real-world

  romance guru. He’s got the love for her, but he can’t tell

  her. The words get
in his way.

  Dig it. Just call Floyd Casanova.

  June 4, 1798. Died in a library. Was reading a book, then

  BAM!

  Huh?

  He knows how famous people died, I say.

  Real talk, cousin?

  It’s a gift.

  Like anybody?

  Anybody famous, infamous, or noteworthy.

  How about Bob Marley?

  He was playing soccer, and he injured his toe.

  He died from a toe injury? C’mon, really?

  No, but they found a cancerous growth on the same toe,

  and then it spread to his brain and lungs, and then BAM!

  That’s so random, but intriguing. Marilyn Mon—

  Uh, I gotta get home soon, I say.

  Right. Sorry, Noah, my dude. You’ve come to the right

  place. So, tell Floyd about this young lady.

  What do you want to know?

  How does she wear her hair, what kind of music does she

  listen to, any piercings, name of her perfume, last book she

  read, vanilla or chocolate, how she makes you feel—you

  know, the crucial happenings in her day-to-day world?

  This Is What I Know about Sam

  She laughs, I smile

  from ear to ear.

  She smells so good,

  I can taste it.

  She cries and I want to make everything better.

  She raises an eyebrow and I quiver.

  She loves mint chocolate chip ’cause she’s sweet.

  She wears her hair like a queen.