Swing Read online

  his right eye.

  Then, a smile.

  These letters are stirring. Genuine heart-melting stuff. You

  found these in the bag?

  Yep, there were five of them.

  Why you holding out on me?

  They’re at home.

  I think this is a sign, yo.

  For what?

  For you to paint her from floor to ceiling.

  . . . .

  It’s time, he says, for you

  to take

  the training wheels off.

  Time to take your feet

  off the brakes

  and put the pedal

  to the metal.

  You gotta paint

  your masterpiece, Noah.

  You gotta ride

  into daybreak.

  You gotta tell Sam.

  Today.

  I know, I say, and for once, I actually believe myself.

  Part 2

  I Guess I’ll Hang My Tears Out To Dry

  Too Good to Be True

  After almost a week

  of solitude,

  a week of revving up

  the grit

  and guts

  to tell Sam

  the deal

  but wimping out,

  guess who shows up

  at my front door

  with a Star Wars sleeping bag,

  a bat,

  and a suitcase

  filled with

  eccentric fixations

  he says bring him luck—action figures,

  black soap,

  vitamins,

  and essential oils

  for my well-being.

  IT’S TIME TO SWING, NOAH!

  What are you doing here?

  The weight should be on the balls of your feet and your

  knees should be slightly bent.

  Huh?

  In order to have a balanced swing, you gots to have a

  balanced stance. I’ve been working on my stance. The

  weight should be on your back leg. If your feet are too close

  together, you’ll have a difficult time keeping your head

  level.

  It’s pretty obvious you’re not level-headed.

  Baby Bonds in the house! My swing’s gonna be lethal,

  Noah.

  Again, what are you doing here?

  Still drama at my house. My future, soon-to-be fake dad is

  back in town for the week, and he’s staying with us. Not a

  good look.

  You don’t like him at all, huh?

  I don’t dislike him. But I need to keep him on edge. Make

  sure he knows I’m just not gonna let him act any old way.

  He’s gotta earn my compliance. And this right here is a

  start, he says, dropping what looks like a gift card down

  on the table in our foyer.

  What’s that?

  The price for my love.

  A gift card?

  A two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar gift card. All-you-can-drink

  coffee. WOOHOO!

  First a tattoo, now this.

  You gotta pay to play, yo!

  Cool, but, what does this have to do with you being here?

  A bunch of aunts are at the house helping my mom

  plan the wedding. It’s gonna be in our backyard. A lot of

  familial shenanigans I want no parts of.

  Is your brother home?

  Not yet. Like next week, he’ll be here.

  That’s so cool. I wonder what he’s like now.

  He’s got a beard. He sent pics. But he’s still the same. Can

  I bring him to the party?

  What party?

  I have plans for us, and they are going to enlighten you,

  my man.

  I’m not interested. And, you really can’t stay here.

  If your grandma shows up, I’ll hide in the pantry, or the

  closet, or the bathroom until she leaves.

  I need my privacy.

  Hey, remember those letters you showed me? I need more.

  I’m galvanized.

  Are you even listening?

  First we celebrate, then we read the letters.

  Celebrate?

  We’re celebrating your enstoolment.

  That sounds disgusting.

  The Master and the Pupil

  You’re the king of the castle now. Can’t you feel the tinge of

  freedom in the air?

  No, I cannot.

  We’ve just been given the keys to a museum that houses

  the rarest Egyptian artifacts.

  Huh?

  Responsibility, Authority, Freedom of mind and body. Yo,

  LET’S DO THIS!

  You just left Starbucks, didn’t you?

  Yep.

  You told your mom you’re crashing here?

  Of course. I told her you need help watching the house.

  You good with it, just for a few days, while we plan?

  Plan what?

  The first thing necessary in teaching is a master—the

  second is a pupil capable of carrying on the tradition.

  Let me guess, you’re the master?

  It’s time to let love rule.

  And how do we do that, master?

  Today, Swing teaches the King how to throw the dopest

  party imaginable.

  That’s not going to happen.

  It’s already happening, he says, laughing this sinister

  laugh, then dropping his belongings down and walking

  into the kitchen.

  I can’t throw a party.

  Well, I already texted Sam, and she’s already spreading the

  word, so do you wanna rethink that?

  . . . .

  Hey, let’s get to those love letters. I can’t get them out of my

  head.

  Walt, turn around and go back home.

  It’s time, Noah. IT. IS. TIME.

  It is not time.

  We kick off

  our bachelor life

  eating leftovers,

  listening to a podcast

  called Straight, No Chaser,

  and watching

  the police chief

  on the news

  promise

  to investigate—

  and possibly prosecute—

  the flag litterer,

  who, in addition

  to defacing public property,

  is now suspected

  of breaking

  and entering

  a Walgreens.

  I thought they were open twenty-four hours, Walt says.

  Then, I let him

  read

  the rest of

  Corinthian’s ancient

  love letters.

  6 november 1966

  dear love,

  yr father is not going to keep us apart. i miss u. a fish in water. a soul stranded. in the big sea. the world is changing and i know it will take years of undoing the white robes and old ways, but my love is stronger. let us not dwell on what’s not, rather on what is. me. you. us. together. one day.

  forever,

  corinthian c. Jones.

  12 november 1966

  dear love,

  i painted u again. then i went to church with nothing but a penny for an offering. inside i prayed a thousand prayers sacredly and secretly holding the memory of yr hand in mine. yr voice echoed in the old organ that played our song . . . because all the mysterious and magnificent things that make music will be ours under notes of heaven above and earth below. our love provides god’s angels with trumpet and song. does it matter that the world wants to keep us apart? when i think of harlem, i think of u. when i walk to the street corner to buy apples, i walk with u. when i dance, i dance only with u. when i prime a canvas, it is always u taking shape. i look for your luminosity in the colors. u are the purples, yellows, and reds. every shadow is u sweeping
the room, sweeping the streets. when i dive into dreams, there’s u. everywhere is u. then us.

  even though i’ve lived here many years prior to us, remembering those days seems pointless up until u entered my life, gave me everything, like the goddess of muses. heaven may be a place where artists go when they die, eternally playing songs, painting scenes, writing plays, or else napping, but i regret to inform the big man that i’m not leaving for eternity until u and i can be seen as an “us” on this same earth.

  yours,

  corinthian c. Jones.

  17 november 1966

  dear love,

  they could not keep harriet tubman from freeing my people. they could not keep reverend king from that bridge in selma. and not one or ten or one hundred shotguns will keep me from harrisburg. from seeing you. we will figure out a solution. all the answers are in love. thank you for Jumping into my loving arms at the train station. but it was not smart to hold my hand on your front stoop. i know you are strong and unafraid. it is what chains me to you, but as my grandma liked ta say, a blind mule ain’t afraid of darkness. whoa annemarie. we will have our chance to sway and sing and kiss and dance. we will gallop with the butterflies and honey bees, you swinging in and out of my arms on the breeze. our samba will be rhythmic and alluring and deep.

  for now, i love staying up all night and finding orion and pretending our love exists in zion. these are the only things that matter. copper sun and alabaster moon. they each need each other. we need each other. each day without u is as blue as the sky. let us not be apart too much longer. until that time, like the song says, i guess i will hang my tears out to dry.

  remember me to love,

  corinthian c. Jones.

  p.s. my great-grandmother was cherokee, which means i’ve got an eighth of indian. that part of me will always protest this holiday, but i wish you a plump turkey and holiday greetings.

  Ebony and Ivory

  Where’s the rest?

  That’s it.

  What?! You can’t leave me like that.

  I didn’t leave you like anything.

  You sure there’s no more letters? You checked the bag?

  Thoroughly?

  That was it, Walt.

  Well dang, yo.

  I know. I wondered what happened to them too. I even

  googled him.

  Anything?

  Only that some dude named Corinthian Jones, who

  was born in 1966, was about to “turn up and sip a little

  drink.” According to Twitter.

  These letters are slightly mysterious. It’s like a TV show on

  paper, and we’re binge watching.

  It’s kinda wack, though, to be eavesdropping on their

  love. Maybe this isn’t cool.

  What’s not cool is her pops pulling a shotgun out and

  trying to keep them apart.

  True, but why?

  Seriously, Noah.

  What? The dad could be keeping them apart for any

  reason.

  He was from Harlem in 1966. And she was in Harrisburg,

  PA, which is not exactly Harlem. Paul McCartney and

  Stevie Wonder, yo.

  Huh?

  Ebony and Ivory. There were those who didn’t want black

  people dating white people back in the day.

  I thought Corinthian was Cherokee.

  And this is why you keep getting Cs and low scores on your

  PSATs. You need to read. Really read the letter and think

  about the time period and the context and the meaning.

  You’re doing the most. Now you sound like Ms. Miller,

  and that’s just not cool. I did notice Corinthian had some

  good lines though.

  Goddess of muses.

  That’s the one! That’s exactly how I feel about Sam.

  Then use these letters as inspiration. Be like Corinthian

  and go for what you want, no matter the cost.

  . . . .

  Or do nothing, I really don’t care. I’m hungry. What’re you

  cooking for dinner?

  I’m not cooking for you.

  Let’s get pizza and beer.

  We don’t drink beer.

  Then just order pizza. I gotta go work on my stance.

  Texts with Granny

  9:43 pm

  Hey, Granny.

  Just checking in.

  9:49 pm

  Granny, it’s Noah.

  Things are good over here.

  You okay?

  9:49 pm

  YOU DON’T NEED TO

  CHECK IN SO MUCH.

  9:49 pm

  Huh?

  9:52 pm

  ARE YOU OKAY? IS THE

  HOUSE OKAY? YOU

  HAVE ENOUGH FOOD?

  9:52 pm

  Yes, Granny, but why

  are you screaming?

  Turn your caps off.

  9:54 pm

  I DON’T KNOW HOW

  TO Do oh wait did that

  work noah????????????

  9:54 pm

  Yes.

  9:57 pm

  noah, i don’t want to

  stay over there

  any more than you

  want me to stay

  9:58 pm

  over there, so how’s

  about you don’t

  burn down the house,

  you don’t have any

  9:59 pm

  wild parties, and

  you come see me

  weekly to check in

  ’cause i’m a little

  10:00 pm

  busy with senior dance

  and book club

  and netflix.

  have you seen

  10:01 pm

  luke cage? too violent

  for me, but the crown

  is omg. also,

  me and the girls

  10:02 pm

  are going to the casino

  for the weekend.

  if you won’t tell,

  i won’t tell. DEAL?

  10:02 pm

  So you mean . . .

  10:04 pm

  I WAS DRIVING

  A SCHOOL BUS

  AT YOUR AGE.

  YOU’RE OLD ENOUGH

  TO START TAKING CARE

  OF YOURSELF.

  10:05 pm

  Okay. Well, I’ll call

  you every day to

  check in.

  10:07 pm

  NOT NECESSARY. I’M

  IN AND OUT

  THESE DAYS, NOAH,

  WITH MEETINGS

  10:09 pm

  AND DANCE, YOU SEE?

  JUST CALL ME

  if you get thrown in jail.

  10:09 pm

  Okay. Well, I love you.

  10:12 pm

  Granny?

  10:12 pm

  Janice Wallace has left the conversation.

  Inspiration

  In the still of the night

  I take one of

  Corinthian’s letters,

  retype

  his story

  of love

  as if it’s my own.

  I begin

  with his words,

  trace a heart,

  make them mine,

  borrow

  his love story,

  wonder if it

  can repeat itself,

  wonder if Sam

  can love me

  like Annemarie

  loved him.

  Friday Morning

  Howdy, sunshine.

  How’s the stance?

  Didn’t work on it as much as I should have. Got distracted

  with some very important research.

  What class?

  Divya 101.

  Seriously?

  Those letters, yo. They got all up in my feelings. The

  unrequited love. The romance. I think I’m in love.

  With the letters?

  Keep
up, Noah. With Divya. I want to know everything

  about her.

  What’d you find out?

  She’s an older woman.

  How old is she?

  Nineteen, according to my research.

  I think you’re out of your league.

  Yo, why does the kitchen smell like Sharpie? he says,

  pouring chocolate milk into a bowl of cereal and

  blueberries. And what’s with the mess in here? It looks like

  Times Square on New Year’s Eve. How long you been up?

  Not long. Rereading the letters, drawing a little, trying to

  get inspired to take the training wheels off.

  Well, good for you, he says, slurping his concoction next

  to me at the counter. Let me see.

  It’s just scribbles and stuff.

  Let me see.

  Nah. Don’t want to share.

  Don’t want to share. What? Is it another sappy, crappy

  love song?

  Nope.

  Then hand it over, he says, grabbing one of the pages I’ve

  been working on for hours, before I can pick them all up

  off the counter. Let’s see what we have here.