Swing Read online

She walks—

  STOP! CUT! C’MON, SON, he screams, with a frown

  and a smile at the same time, turning customers’ heads

  toward us. Cliché, Cliché, Cli-freakin-ché! Okay, look, this

  is how you need to see her. Like she’s a living, breathing,

  walking manifestation of art. Pay attention to Floyd . . .

  This Is What Floyd Knows about Sam

  She laughs like a whip-poor-will sings.

  She smells like honeysuckle in summer.

  She cries like a soft and delicate rain.

  She raises one eyebrow like a rainbow perched on heaven.

  She loves mint chocolate chip because it’s got that kick.

  She wears her hair like freedom and it captivates you.

  She walks like a wave, assured and ready to carry your

  heart in hers.

  Yeah, I say. That’s what I meant.

  The Secret Formula

  He closes his eyes again,

  looks like he’s back to meditating,

  then mumbles something

  incomprehensible about

  training wheels

  and grabs my hands

  like we’re both in prayer.

  Okay, this is what Floyd thinks you ought to do . . .

  Unlock your heart

  Take this key, he says, squeezing my hand

  so hard my knuckles crack.

  Open the door to your destiny,

  crash through it.

  Enter the house.

  Own it.

  Own the farm

  and the ranch, cowboy.

  Saddle up.

  Huh? I say to myself, wondering what the heck he’s

  talking about.

  This is your movie, Noah.

  Write a new scene

  in her life.

  Paint her a new world.

  A strong one, that holds

  her hands,

  brings the light,

  makes the darkness cease,

  and captures delight.

  Do not let your lips become bricks,

  your fingers an anchor,

  your heart a desert.

  Shout it from sea to sea.

  She is a wave,

  large and looming,

  but Floyd will not let you drown.

  Paddle for the wave.

  Catch it.

  Ride it.

  Ride it as long as you can.

  Right into daybreak.

  Unpack your cool,

  take the training wheels off,

  ride with her love.

  Cruise like fire in her sky.

  You got that? he asks, opening his eyes, finally.

  Yeah, I lie. ’Cause I don’t. Got that.

  At all.

  Guru Confusion

  That was some mind-blowing counseling, was it not?

  If by mind-blowing you mean absurd and perplexing,

  then it sure was. And why was he speaking in third

  person? That was weird.

  He’s eccentric.

  He’s confusing. I have a headache from all the

  metaphors. And, what’s up with the training wheel

  stuff?

  It’s the podcast. He’s the producer of it.

  He produces the Woohoo Woman thing you’ve been

  talking about?

  I told you he’s a guru.

  This just got weirder.

  You just gotta listen to it, and you’ll COME ALIVE.

  I’ll send you the link later tonight. WOOHOO, he

  hollers, as we cross

  the street

  to avoid

  being on the wrong side—the block

  he can’t walk on.

  We turn down

  a winding road

  that makes the walk home

  extra, extra long.

  Yeah, thanks for your help, I say.

  You’re very welcome.

  I was being sarcastic, Walt.

  So was I.

  A Sign

  Spray-painted

  on a stop sign

  near his house

  is a red-white-and-blue

  lone star

  with one word

  underneath it.

  America?

  The Meaning

  Why the question mark, though?

  Has America lived up to its ideals? There’s a debt to be

  paid and it’s time to cash the check. Let

  America be America. For all. What’s in your wallet, Noah?

  You got all that from a question mark?

  I’m just saying, the flags are a sign.

  Of what?

  Of things falling apart.

  Your brain is like a mashup of everything you’ve ever read

  or seen or heard.

  Hey, I’m just being real.

  Somebody posted they saw someone in a white sheet

  putting the flags up.

  What, like the Klan?

  Nah, like a ghost literally disappearing into the darkness.

  My soon-to-be stepfather thinks Amazon’s behind it. Some

  kind of big advertising thing they’re doing.

  To sell flags?

  Maybe they’re making a play for the US Army?

  That’s ridiculous.

  Why? I mean, they own everything. The end of the world as

  we know it, and it starts with Whole Foods and drones.

  Real profound, Walt.

  Just real, my man. You want profound, listen to the podcast

  tonight. Mind-blowing stuff, Noah. Mind-blowing.

  I don’t know if I’ll have time with homework, shower,

  and my stomach is cramping up from the milkshake—

  Noah, love does not wait.

  Come to think of it, why are you so obsessed with my

  love life?

  Or lack thereof.

  Whatever.

  Ubuntu.

  Huh?

  The philosophy of Ubuntu is, I am because we are. I help

  my brother, I’m a better person. Simple as that.

  You really think Amazon is the apocalypse?

  Nah, my soon-to-be stepfather’s an idiot.

  Family Meeting

  When I get home,

  I find Mom and Dad

  sitting quietly

  on the living room sofa,

  eyes frozen

  on me,

  like they’re about to drop

  some seriously bad news.

  I’m not sure

  if someone’s lost a job,

  if someone has died,

  or if they’re pissed

  because I came in late

  on a school night, or forgot

  to do something I was

  supposed to do.

  All I know is

  when there’s a family meeting,

  it’s usually something grim,

  and it begins with . . .

  Sit Down, Noah

  Is everything okay?

  Did you forget something? my dad asks.

  I put the recycling out.

  Yep.

  I should have told you all I was going to be out late

  tonight. I’m sorry.

  It’s just the considerate thing to do, Noah, my mom adds.

  Today was an important day too, Mom says, while Dad

  winks at me like a madman, and I wonder, did I forget

  something significant?

  Still is important, honey. Still is. Noah, don’t you have

  something to say to your mother?

  Happy Valentine’s Day, Mom, I say, and kiss her on the

  cheek.

  And? Dad says to me.

  Uh, annddd—

  Happy Birthday, Mom, Mom says, shaking her head and

  laughing.

  Oh yeah. I remembered, then totally forgot. I’m sorry,

  Mom. Happy Birthday, I say, walking over to her,

  ashamed
.

  Thank you, honey!

  I feel like a real butthole.

  You should, Dad says, as Mom slaps him on the leg.

  Noah, she says, we’re leaving for Barcelona in a few days.

  Yeah, I know.

  And there are some house rules you’ll need to adhere to.

  I think I’m clear on all the rules, you guys. No parties on

  weekdays, no more than nineteen people in the house at

  a time, and no beer on an empty stomach, right?

  . . . .

  Look, guys, I’m good. I’ll check in with Granny every

  day. Meals are labeled in the freezer. I’ll mow the lawn

  on Saturday. No one is allowed in the house, and so forth

  and so on.

  Now that we’ve gotten that straight, Dad says, let’s talk

  about the dent in my car.

  What dent?

  Follow us, my dad says, leading me to the garage.

  Oh dang.

  The Walk of Death

  Mom, Dad, and I walk

  to the garage

  like we’re heading

  to a funeral.

  Mine.

  Dad loves his

  Volvo.

  He’s had it

  since I was in

  middle school, and

  takes pride

  in the fact

  that it has never

  had a scratch,

  is always polished,

  and that it sparkles brighter

  than a lake

  in summer.

  We’re real quiet

  walking to the garage.

  My mind is racing

  through the one time

  last month

  he let me drive it

  to school.

  Did I dent it

  getting gas, or

  did a rogue shopping cart

  hit it

  at the mall?

  Go ahead, open the garage door, Dad says, shooting me a

  stern look and giving me a little shove.

  I’m screwed.

  Twins

  There’s a TV preacher

  who lives

  in our city

  named Pastor Mike,

  whose kids go

  to my school.

  Every now and then,

  we see him cruising

  around town,

  always with his wife, Becky,

  holding their two bassett hounds,

  William and Faulkner,

  who hang out the passenger window

  of his shiny, candy-apple red

  Ford 250 pickup truck

  with 35-inch-tall tires

  and a license plate

  that reads

  ROM 12 9.

  My granddad had

  the same truck—same

  color, only older,

  dirtier, and smaller,

  with 16-inch baby tires—that

  has been sitting

  in the driveway

  of my granny’s house.

  Until today.

  Two-of-a-Kind

  What’s this?

  It’s yours, Noah, Mom says. Don’t you love it? Granny

  doesn’t drive it, so she gave it to you. We fixed it up, put

  some new tires on it, and voilà, you have your own car to

  drive around. It’s kind of sporty, like you.

  I stand back,

  catch my breath.

  First of all,

  it’s not sporty,

  and if this jalopy

  is the truck

  that is supposed to look like

  my kind of car,

  I’m in trouble

  with life.

  Yeah. It’s cool. Really, really cool, I say, wishing my

  acting skills were better.

  How is it that it’s my birthday, and you’re getting the gift?

  Mom says, kissing me on the cheek.

  I have something for you too, Mom, I promise. I just

  need to pick it up.

  Yeah, right, Dad says, jangling the keys, then tossing

  them to me. Let’s take it for a spin, give it some get up

  and go.

  The Jalopy

  We spin

  and sputter

  around

  our neighborhood streets.

  There is no get up.

  Or go.

  I want to be grateful.

  I want to be thankful.

  But I’m embarrassed.

  I hope no one drives past us

  and waves.

  What are you going to name it? Dad asks. Sam?

  I laugh and say, Maybe, just to be agreeable.

  But I would never

  name it Sam.

  It’s not hot

  and it absolutely

  has no style.

  At least Pastor Mike has rims

  and booming speakers

  that blast

  his sermons.

  The upholstery

  above my head

  is torn and tattered.

  And, beneath my feet,

  the bottom might literally fall out

  at any second.

  I think I’ll name it Granny, I say.

  Good plan. Make sure you call her tonight and thank her,

  Dad says,

  picking up

  the sun visor

  on the passenger side,

  which he doesn’t think

  I saw fall

  into his lap.

  Three-way Conversation

  Guys, I got a ride.

  WHOA! A NEW CAR, BRO?

  A truck. New to me.

  That’s awesome, Noah.

  Thanks, Sam.

  YO, CAN I GET A RIDE TO THE MALL?!

  Walt, how about we let him enjoy the moment first.

  WHO’S WALT?

  What are you talking about, Walt?

  TELL HER, NOAH, Walt hollers.

  And, why are you screaming? Pipe down, fella.

  He doesn’t go by Walt anymore.

  Oh, really, Sam says, rolling her eyes through the phone.

  The name’s Swing.

  Swing? How’d you come up with that?

  Tell her, Noah, he says again.

  Nah, you tell her, Swing.

  ’Cause I’m hitting it out of the park next year. That’s why.

  Baseball, girls, cool.

  Good luck with that, uh, Swing, Sam says.

  So, guys, I do need to get my mom a birthday gift. So

  maybe the mall—

  OKAY, I’M ON MY WAY OVER!

  Nah, man, tomorrow. We just got back from Dairy

  Queen. I can’t go back out tonight.

  Wait, y’all went to DQ without me? You know how much I

  love a dipped cone.

  You don’t really hang with us like that anymore, Walt says

  to her, nonchalantly.

  Seriously, guys.

  AM I LYING?

  . . . .

  We had a meeting, Sam, I say, trying to make things a

  little less awkward, even though Walt’s right.

  A meeting? About what?

  . . . .

  Helloooo! What kind of meeting?

  JUST A MEETING, SAM. MEN TALK!

  You’re an idiot, Walt.

  Uh, guys, I gotta run, I say. My dad’s calling me.

  YEAH, I GOTTA GO TOO! I SENT THE PODCAST,

  NOAH.

  What podcast?

  . . . .

  You guys are acting real strange. This isn’t finished, jokers.

  LATERS, SAM.

  Text me later, Noah.

  Uh, okay, Sam. Walt, after Sluggerville, let’s hit the mall

  tomorrow.

  Don’t leave me out. I’m going too.

  You sure Cruz won’t mind?

  He’s my boyfriend, not my boss, Walt. Geesh, guys, why

  are y’all trippin’ a
ll of a sudden?

  . . . .

  WE JUST WANT BETTER FOR YOU, SAM.

  Boy, bye!

  First Attempt

  I’m gonna do it.

  I’m gonna sit down

  and write her a new world,

  maybe a love song

  or a sonnet.

  I’m gonna write it

  like a boss

  like I’m BruNoah Mars.

  Tell her exactly

  how I feel,

  channel the love wizard, Floyd,

  and make her swoon.

  I scratch the pen

  against the paper,

  but nothing

  appears on the page,

  just spirals and spirals

  of spinning anxiety.

  My mind’s a blank

  block of cement

  and my palms

  a sweaty swamp

  of nerves.

  In desperation,

  I turn to

  a couple

  of women.

  WOOHOO WOMAN Podcast #1: Who’s at the Controls?

  Do you want better? Better friends? Better jobs? Better

  kids? Better Love? Better you? Better YES? And less NO

  in your life? Then you’ve tuned in to the right place. I’m

  Jackie, and I’m Marj, and this is The Woohoo Woman

  Podcast.

  JACKIE: WOOHOOO!

  MARJ: We’re back for the last half hour of Woohoo Woman,

  hopefully with a little less profanity in this segment.