Swing Read online

JACKIE: Forgive me, listeners, I get a little excited when

  it comes to saying yes to life. Let’s be honest, being a

  Woohoo Woman in today’s world takes nerve. Sometimes it

  takes brashness. It always takes bravery and the managing

  of careers, dreams, ambitions, family, romance. IT’S

  REAL OUT HERE IN THESE DAYU— In these streets.

  MARJ: Breathe in and breathe out, girlfriend.

  JACKIE: Okay, let’s get back on topic. What were we

  talking about, Marj?

  MARJ: A man is a woman’s partner, but not her necessity.

  It is a choice. The Woohoo Woman needs a man to

  understand that the way to a woman’s heart is by listening,

  and . . .

  JACKIE: And by admitting that we can be brilliant and

  beautiful, independent and hot, at the same time. And if

  one more man whistles at me when I’m walking to my car,

  I’m gonna go all Wonder Woman on his as—

  MARJ: Assuming that men are listening to us right now,

  I’d like to offer this to our brothers . . .

  JACKIE: We want our men to love us for our dreams and

  choices. We want them to hear us. We are much more than

  legs and lips. The Woohoo Woman is much, much more.

  MARJ: We are explorers of life. A world within a complex

  world. Our controls aren’t just on and off. They’re more like

  a keypad to a space shuttle on its way to another galaxy.

  JACKIE: We are the friggin’ space shuttle, Marj. We control

  the controls.

  MARJ: Woohoo!

  JACKIE: WOOHOO!

  MARJ: That’s our time for today, sisters and brothers.

  Time to wake up and find your Woohoo! Check us out at

  WoohooWoman.com for more podcasts, and to read our

  manifesto on what we stand for. Any last words, Jackie?

  JACKIE: Do the friggin’ work, women. Holla!

  MARJ: Next week we’re playing an oldie but goodie.

  JACKIE: One of our producer, Floyd’s, favorites. We’re

  taking the training wheels off and poppin’ wheelies! So

  tune in to The Woohoo Woman Podcast.

  For Your Safety—Please Read All Warning and Operating Signs Before Batting

  We’re here

  under the big lights again

  with the smell of sweat, old shoes,

  sugary bubblegum,

  and gasoline-scented breeze.

  Children run around

  everywhere, and though the sign says,

  No Pets Allowed,

  dogs bark,

  scavenge for food

  off the ground.

  I could be sitting

  in the designated “dugout”

  where parents

  and tired friends go

  to chill

  on benches and eat snacks

  when they’re bored,

  but instead, I stand

  behind the chain-link fence

  doodling

  on a vintage baseball ad

  I found

  in a magazine

  on the ground,

  while watching Walt

  miss

  and miss

  and miss some more.

  He sways back and forth

  on the artificial turf

  with a sparkle of hope

  in his eyes.

  Today is the day magic happens, he says, readying

  himself. It’s Swing Time!

  The sound of ball

  hitting aluminum

  in every lane

  but his.

  The protective screens

  shaking

  with the vibration

  of each hit,

  or in Walt’s case,

  each miss.

  Mo once told me in a baseball swing, you gotta use a toe

  tap or leg kick to gather momentum.

  Yeah, I’ve seen that. Why don’t you try it! I say, feigning

  encouragement.

  Swing repositions

  his pose,

  and I’m not sure he knows

  what twists where,

  or how to kick

  while simultaneously hitting

  the ball.

  He has plans

  for a line drive,

  to crush it,

  slash it,

  slay it.

  But in truth,

  if this were a game of ducking,

  he’d win.

  He is getting a little better,

  hitting at a slightly higher percentage,

  though it would take

  a mathematician

  or his patient best friend

  to notice, because

  he has been so bad

  for so, so long.

  When his bat

  finally meets ball,

  it scatters off far right,

  hits the barrier.

  Walt spins around

  in celebration,

  grins like a crescent moon.

  I’m in it to win it, Noah. Barry Baby Bonds in the house!

  And though I’m slightly tired

  of watching, I shout,

  Keep your eyes on the ball, Swing. You got this!

  Because part of me hopes

  he does.

  Conversation on the Way to the Mall

  You text Sam?

  I guess there’s no USB in here.

  Dude, did you let her know to meet us?

  Chill, bro, she’s coming. We need to pimp this ride.

  . . . .

  I guess we’ll just listen on my phone.

  I already listened to the podcast. Don’t really get that

  Woohoo stuff.

  It was kind of layered, Noah.

  So, you didn’t understand it either.

  I did. They were talking about listening, and Wonder

  Woman.

  And don’t forget space shuttles. That’s a lot of metaphors.

  You need to listen as much as possible. You’ll catch on. I’ve

  been tuning in for months, and look at me.

  I’m looking and I’m not impressed.

  We need to think like them so we can understand them.

  So, we need to listen?

  Basically.

  The mall

  is overrated,

  plus, I don’t have

  enough money

  for a mall gift,

  so we head

  to a thrift shop

  Walt knows about.

  In my vintage ride,

  we listen to more Woohoo

  to get me pumped up

  to finally tell Sam

  how bold

  and brave

  and beautiful she is.

  So, you’re gonna finally do it? he asks.

  Probably, I say, not convincing him. Or me.

  Cruel Comparison

  We pull up

  bursting with

  Woohoo warrior spirit,

  but there she is,

  standing outside

  HIS car,

  holding on

  to HIS arm.

  We walk toward them.

  I look down

  at my own arms

  and then over at Walt’s.

  It’s like we’re competing

  for the skinniest hanging noodles.

  I rise up

  high as I can

  in my high-tops,

  cross my arms

  and push out my biceps

  with my knuckles.

  Anything not to feel so

  small.

  Cruz

  has a full beard

  that would make

  hipsters jealous

  and guns the size of

  a wrestler’s.

  He drives fast,

  pitches fast,

&n
bsp; and has baseball scouts trying

  to keep up

  like lost puppies.

  Freshman year,

  he tormented us,

  called us ladies,

  but last year

  when he and Sam started dating,

  he stopped.

  Now, he calls us Hey you.

  It’s like all the good in him

  just rushed to the front

  of the line,

  and he got all new.

  Sam has a way

  of doing that—bringing out the better

  in you.

  Out With the Old

  is the name

  of the thrift store,

  which smells

  like perfume

  and mothballs.

  If you added onions,

  it’d be like lit class

  with Ms. Miller,

  who smells

  like all three

  when she leans in

  with hot breath

  and recites

  Shakespeare.

  To be or not to be: that is the onion, Walt likes to say.

  I laugh,

  thinking about Ms. Miller

  among the dizzying

  racks and racks

  of used clothes,

  old books and records,

  handmade jewelry,

  weird pottery duck mugs,

  frog ashtrays,

  and other decades-old knickknacks.

  Hey you, what’s funny? Cruz asks,

  popping up

  from behind a rack

  of old, wooly coats

  with Sam’s arms

  enveloping him.

  Conversation

  Nothing, really. Good game yesterday.

  That’s how I roll, he says, not looking at me.

  HEY, NOAH, WHAT ABOUT THIS FOR YOUR

  MOM? Walt screams, wearing a big ole purple church

  hat. I ignore him as he holds up several more.

  Look what Cruz is gonna buy me, Sam says, holding up a

  shiny heart bracelet. So cliché.

  Babe, you’re my heart, he says, and they kiss like nobody

  and everybody’s watching. So cliché.

  Stop, babe, we gotta help Noah find a birthday gift for his

  mom.

  YEAH, WHY DON’T Y’ALL GET A ROOM, Walt yells

  out, from over by the one-dollar used books.

  I gotta go, babe, Cruz, says, kissing her again. I try not

  to pay attention to how long it lasts—eleven seconds—or

  how his hands move up and down her back (slowly), or

  how her eyes are closed and his are looking at—

  Hey you, stop staring at my girl’s haunches.

  Haunches? Really, Cruz, Sam says.

  What? I know how you don’t like when I say—

  Boy, bye. Have a great practice.

  I’ll see you tonight, babe, he says, knocking over a stand

  of knickknacks, not picking them up before walking out

  the door.

  There’s literally nothing and everything here. Let’s just

  go back to the mall.

  Do you have an idea of what she’d like? Sam asks.

  Something my mom could take on her trip would be

  cool, I say, helping pick up the mess Cruz left behind.

  What about the hats and bonnets that Swing was holding

  up?

  Kinda corny and ancient.

  VINTAGE IS THE NEW BLACK, NOAH, Walt hollers.

  I can’t see her wearing those hats, I say.

  What about, like, a purse or a scarf?

  She doesn’t wear scarves.

  So, a purse it is.

  Yeah, I guess that could work.

  I follow Sam over

  to the register

  where the jewelry is,

  and point to a bag

  that matches

  some of her luggage.

  Nice taste, Noah. Look at you, she says.

  What?

  EXPENSIVE TASTE TOO, Walt yells. If it’s in a display

  case, it’s gonna be pricey, yo. He walks over to eye it.

  Oh, I know all about these. Fancy people carry them to

  show other, less-fancy people that they’re rich . . . LIKE

  REALLY RICH. He leans down to peer into the case.

  How much does it say it is? Sam asks.

  IT’S ONLY TWO HUNDRED NINETY-FIVE

  DOLLARS, Walt says, stressing the ONLY part and

  laughing.

  How much was that purple hat again?

  Gift Giving 101

  Sam tries to explain to me

  that you can tell a lot

  about a man

  by how he treats

  his mother

  and that I should consider

  buying the bag,

  because when it comes

  to my mother,

  money shouldn’t be an object,

  and if the gift will make her happy,

  I should get it.

  You mean like the bracelet Cruz is buying you—will that

  make you happy? Walt asks, sarcastically.

  And that’s when

  she realizes

  he left

  without buying it.

  YOU GOT PLAYED, SISTER, Walt says, laughing from

  over by the bookshelf. When a guy shows you who he is,

  believe him, he adds, shaking his head, and looking at

  me.

  Sam immediately calls Cruz,

  and all we hear

  is her fussing

  as she storms

  out of the store.

  The Keepall

  As I stand there

  eyeing the purse,

  wishing I wasn’t broke,

  a girl

  with retro frames

  and long, braided black hair

  with matching nail polish

  walks over,

  takes it out the case,

  and sets it on the counter.

  It’s Louis Vuitton, she says. It’s called a Keepall bag. At

  two hundred and ninety-five dollars, it’s a steal.

  Striking. Exquisite, Walt says, looking not at the bag, but

  at her.

  In the 1850s, Louis Vuitton was the packer for the empress

  of France. That’s how he got his start. Packing the suitcases

  for Napoleon Bonaparte’s wife.

  May 5, 1821. Napoleon died from stomach cancer caused

  by ulcers, Walt interjects. Got way too stressed out from

  being a traitor and whatnot, and BAM!

  Random, right? He knows how people died, I say to the

  girl, because I know she thinks we’re crazy.

  It’s a gift, Walt says.

  Impressive. But it wasn’t that Napoleon. It was the nephew,

  Napoleon—

  Napoleon the third, that’s right, I knew that, Walt

  interrupts again, looking a little embarrassed. Kidney

  disease, bladder stones, chronic bladder and prostate

  infections, arthritis, and obesity, then BAM. Died on

  January 9, 1873, which is coincidentally the birth date of

  the Jewish poet Hayyim Nahman Bialik, who died from

  prostate cancer. Bladders are no joke.

  Impressive, the girl says to Walt again. As for the bag, it’s a

  beauty. Vintage and classy, she adds.

  Like you, Walt says, walking over. I’m Swing.

  Divya. I’m sure we can work out a deal. You shopping for

  someone special?

  Yeah. My mom, I say.

  Sweet.

  His name is Noah, Walt chimes in, throwing a pea-green,

  itchy-looking scarf around his neck. Divya’s a charming

  name, ambrosial even. What does it mean?

  Divinely brilliant.

  Your eyes are brilliant, a d
ivine mix of swirls and color.

  Like there are two worlds spinning behind your glasses.

  Wait, did I just say that out loud?

  You did. And thank you.

  He grabs her hand

  with a confidence

  I’ve never seen

  in mixed company

  and kisses it.

  He. Actually. Kisses. Her. Hand.

  And it’s so corny

  it’s actually cool.

  She smiles.

  So, do you want the bag?

  He can’t afford it, Walt says.

  I can speak for myself, dude. Uh, I can’t afford it.

  I can offer a fifty percent discount.

  He still can’t afford it. But if you got dishes, he can do your

  dishes, or he can dust, Walt says, laughing.

  Hey, can’t you loan me the money? I whisper to Walt.

  Yeah, Mr. Swing, why don’t you loan your buddy the

  money to buy a gift for his mom? It’s the righteous thing

  to do, Divya says, looking him straight in the eye and not

  blinking once.

  I don’t make loans, Divya. Especially to friends.

  Remember, Noah?

  C’mon, man, I’ll pay you back.

  How? With what? You don’t have a job.

  My parents are leaving me with some loot before their

  trip.

  Hmmm. Let me think for a minute. He starts handling

  the shirts and old hats and gloves like a miser. Maybe I’ll

  loan you the money.

  That would be so cool. That would be the coolest thing

  you’ve ever done for me. Like, seriously, the coolest.

  Shall I wrap it up, then? Divya says.

  Not just yet; there’s stipulations. You got a piece of paper I

  can borrow? He’ll need to sign something.