Swing Read online

  . . . .

  That’s fine, don’t say anything, but I bet it worked. She

  liked it, didn’t she? Trust your indelible words.

  . . . .

  The train is moving, yo. Time to get on board. Say

  something, Noah.

  . . . .

  SHUT THE FREAK UP

  is what I want

  to yell

  at Walt

  as he blathers on

  about why

  he had to do it

  on my behalf.

  Instead,

  I just ignore him.

  Walk away.

  Get in my car,

  turn up the music

  on my almost-dead, crackling radio,

  and burn rubber,

  leaving him

  right there

  on the school curb.

  Stuck

  He’s right;

  the train is rolling,

  but I’m not on it.

  I’m standing

  in the middle

  of the track.

  Stuck.

  My Heart

  I wish she’d call.

  I want to know

  what she’s thinking.

  I want to know

  how she’s feeling,

  but I’m afraid to dial—

  to dial her number,

  afraid to text—

  afraid that anything

  will open up the universe

  of this blackout fiasco—

  this black hole

  of my existence.

  What if I get

  sucked into

  the end

  of everything,

  and all that’s left

  are a couple

  circled words?

  Finally

  8:14 pm

  Noah, maybe it’s Cruz.

  8:16 pm

  Noah, you there?

  8:16 pm

  Yup.

  8:16 pm

  Would be so sweet,

  if it’s him.

  8:19 pm

  It’s not him.

  8:19 pm

  How do you know?

  8:19 pm

  He’s not exactly Rimbaud.

  8:20 pm

  What does that mean?

  8:20 pm

  Has he ever read a book,

  let alone written

  something besides

  8:20 pm

  a baseball scorecard?

  8:21 pm

  RUDE!

  8:21 pm

  I’m just saying.

  8:21 pm

  HATER!!!

  8:21 pm

  . . . .

  8:22 pm

  . . . .

  8:22 pm

  I’m sorry, Sam.

  I mean, I guess it could be

  Cruz.

  8:22 pm

  I’ll let you know

  if I get another one,

  okay?

  8:24 pm

  You want another one?

  When Walt strolls

  into my house

  with a dozen red velvet cupcakes,

  interrupting

  my train of thought

  599 times

  to tell me

  he’s sorry

  I wish I’d never

  given him

  a key.

  Apology

  I guess I shoulda asked you,

  convinced you

  it was a genius plan.

  But you needed the push, bro.

  You weren’t gonna

  help yourself,

  honor your talents.

  I’m sorry I didn’t

  consult with you first.

  Shut up.

  But it was like waiting

  for my little cousin Leroy

  to learn to walk

  and get off the bottle.

  He liked being carried around.

  It felt safe.

  And I need you

  to stop crawling,

  stop playing it safe,

  and start walking . . .

  no, running toward

  all the opportunities.

  Shut up.

  You have to grow, bro.

  Take a chance.

  If I didn’t act fast

  for you,

  you’d still be

  secretly scribbling hearts

  with Sam’s name on it

  for the next eighty years.

  I guess I was wrong,

  and for that

  I’m immensely sorry.

  Maybe you just

  need to fail

  without even trying.

  It’s your life,

  and you gotta do

  what you gotta do,

  learn the way you

  need to learn,

  live the way

  you wanna live.

  PLEASE, SHUT UP!

  Noise

  But it’s difficult, man.

  I love you like a brother,

  and I want to see you

  dare to enter

  the cave of uncertainty,

  find your way out

  to the other side,

  where the light

  of reward awaits.

  You feel me?

  You understand me?

  You forgive me?

  Dude, where ya going?

  I slam my door

  loud enough

  for the house to rattle,

  and for Walt to get

  the point.

  Still, I wish

  I’d taken

  the cupcakes.

  The Price of Betrayal

  It’s been a weekend

  of dreary weather

  inside

  and out,

  of Walt walking around

  like a ghost.

  I haven’t spoken

  one word to him,

  not one.

  Not even to tell him

  to knock it off

  when he slurps

  his SpaghettiOs

  or cereal loudly

  in the next room.

  I lock myself inside

  my four walls,

  even though I know

  it’s killing him

  that I’m not acknowledging

  he’s here.

  I’m not ready to accept

  his pathetic apology.

  Even if most

  of what he says

  makes sense,

  it doesn’t take away

  from the fact

  he stole

  my art like a thief,

  gave it to Sam,

  risking my humiliation.

  She wasn’t supposed

  to see

  my drawings.

  It’s not something

  I ever planned to share.

  It’s a piece of me

  that should

  stay hidden

  inside the History

  of the Unseen.

  If this ruins my chances

  with Sam,

  I don’t know how

  or if

  I’ll ever

  forgive him.

  Starbucks

  Where’s Swing?

  I don’t know, Sam.

  Uh, isn’t he staying at your place?

  My guess is he’s on his way.

  Where?

  Here.

  Why didn’t he ride with you?

  Because.

  I don’t understand.

  Look, I’m not in charge of Walt’s whereabouts.

  Trouble in paradise. You guys have a tiff?

  He pissed me off, yeah!

  What happened?

  Nothing I want to talk about, actually.

  . . . .

  . . . .

  Fine, I’ll change the subject. Are you guys really having a

  party?

  I don’t know—I’m not really feeling it.

  It
’s not the worst idea. I can ask Cruz to get his older

  brother to bring some beer.

  I don’t drink beer.

  Not for us, for everybody else, so your party’s not lame.

  . . . .

  Geesh, who spit in your cereal? Coffee’s taking forever this

  morning.

  . . . .

  By the way, in case you were worried, there’s no need.

  I’m safe.

  Huh?

  The heart-shaped letter thingy from X, my anonymous

  suitor. I didn’t get another one.

  Well, at least no one’s stalking you. That’s good.

  I guess.

  What do you mean?

  I was kinda hoping I did have a secret admirer.

  Oh.

  Oh well. At least I’ve got Cruz. You coming to his game

  with me?

  I’m having dinner with my granny, I lie, knowing

  I don’t want

  to go and watch

  Sam’s boyfriend

  knock another ball

  out the park.

  On Tuesday

  I’m eating onion rings

  and leftover

  mac and cheese

  when the doorbell buzzes

  like five times in a row.

  I walk over

  to the front door,

  look through

  the tiny peephole,

  but don’t see anyone

  standing on the porch.

  I swing the door open,

  thinking I’m about to

  bust one of the

  neighborhood kids

  ding-dong ditching me,

  and all I see

  is the biggest bag

  of party ice

  on my front steps.

  A bag of ice?

  I’m confused

  and a little worried

  what this prank

  might mean,

  or if it’s an ominous

  message from Cruz.

  Then I look out

  into the yard

  and see Walt

  practically standing

  in the azaleas,

  with his Hug Life arms

  holding

  an enormous sign

  above his head

  that says:

  LET’S BREAK THE ICE.

  I can’t help but laugh

  at Walt’s ridiculousness,

  at how crazy he looks,

  at how clever he is,

  and at the fact

  that even though

  he annoys

  the heck out of me

  and drives me insane,

  he is my very best friend.

  I shake my head,

  walk away,

  go back inside,

  leaving the front door

  wide open

  for Walt.

  Apology Accepted

  So, we good?

  . . . .

  You want to talk about it?

  Nope.

  If your brother pisses you off, tell him about it. If he listens

  to you, he is your brother for life.

  Real profound.

  It is. Matthew said it.

  Who’s Matthew?

  The Bible Matthew, yo!

  I doubt the Bible says pissed off, Walt.

  I was paraphrasing. Just trying to elucidate the power of

  communication between brothers.

  . . . .

  Did she like your heart?

  She liked the heart.

  Did she love the heart?

  . . . .

  SHE. LOVED. THE. HEART, DIDN’T SHE?! I KNEW

  IT. My plan worked.

  Don’t piss me off again.

  You should do another one, if she liked it that much.

  . . . .

  Seriously, you could woo her like Steve Martin.

  What are you talking about?

  Roxanne!

  Who’s Roxanne?

  Daryl Hannah played Roxanne in a movie with Steve

  Martin, who wrote her love letters for a friend of his. It’s

  like Cyrano.

  Oh!

  Cyrano de Bergerac.

  Yeah, I know. How’d he die?

  Nobody’s really sure, but he was either injured by a

  wooden beam, a botched assassination attempt, or he went

  insane and stabbed himself, and—

  BAM! Yeah, I get it.

  Are we cool, bro?

  Yeah.

  Come on, let’s hug it out. HUG life, Noah.

  Do we have to?

  Yo, I’m hungry.

  Me too.

  Let’s go grab a burrito.

  Sure, but promise me you won’t crumble up nacho chips

  and put them inside.

  I cannot make that promise.

  . . . .

  On the way, I need to make a stop.

  Where?

  The Baddest Girl on Earth

  She has long, jet-black hair,

  eyes the color of dark amber

  framed in hot-nerd, black-rimmed glasses.

  There’s something enchanting about her.

  I want to watch the rhythm

  in her walk,

  hear the lilt in

  her raspy voice,

  look into her eyes

  and see her story

  from beginning to now.

  I’ve gotta see her again, Noah.

  So, we go back

  to the thrift store

  ’cause Walt

  wants to see the girl

  who rocks his world,

  and he needs me

  to be

  his wingman

  in case

  I get nervous

  and can’t actually speak.

  In case? Ha!

  Conversation

  You’re back. Did your mom like the bag?

  She loved it, I say, wondering if I should tell her about

  the letters we found.

  Hey, Swing, she says to Walt, who’s indeed unable to get

  words out of his mouth, so he waves. What can I help you

  two with this time?

  I’m having a party.

  Wicked!

  And I guess I need to buy some good music for that party.

  You ever heard of streaming?

  I’m old-fashioned, I lie. Got records?

  Plenty. What kind of music?

  I find that the tonality of jazz on vinyl really inhabits you,

  Walt says, finally acting as if he’s alive.

  Oh really, she says.

  Take, for instance, Miles Davis, he continues, his

  confidence building, his awkwardness fading. Kind of

  Blue is a classic example.

  Actually, it’s not, Divya counters.

  Huh? Walt says, frowning.

  Abandoning the traditional major and minor key

  relationships of tonality, Miles based the entire album on

  modality. It was a remarkable, landmark album that shaped

  the future of modern music. It was improvisation, but each

  of the performers was given a set of scales that defined the

  parameters of their improvisation.

  Well, I guess there’s a new sheriff in town, I say, laughing

  a little.

  Uh, Walt utters, almost speechless again.

  Nonetheless, jazz at a high school house party sounds like

  my kind of party. That’s rad, fellas.

  You should come, I say to her, ’cause Walt’s not speaking

  again, even though his mouth is wide open. As is his

  nose.

  Maybe I will. Here’s the jazz section. You want vocals or

  instrumental? Ella or John Coltrane—

  July 17, 1967. Coltrane died from a tumor on his liver, Walt

  says, getting his bearings back. Had a weight problem, got


  real fat, fell over on his porch on Staten Island, and three

  weeks later, BAM!

  Actually, it was Long Island.

  I think I’m in love, Walt says, looking directly at her,

  not realizing that he actually says it out loud.

  Birth of the Cool

  I watch Walt stare

  at Divya

  like a loyal puppy

  while she plays

  different songs

  on a vintage record player

  and he guesses

  who’s playing.

  You’re good, Swing, she says to him, after he tells her the

  name of record number five.

  “Salt Peanuts.” That’s bebop and scat. Dizzy Gillespie,

  baby!

  Okay, last one, for the win, she says as she puts the needle

  on the record.

  . . . .

  Well, Divya says, I’ll need an answer.

  Is it . . . Dexter Gordon?

  You’re getting warm.

  Charlie Parker?

  Cold.

  Give me a hint.

  Miles Davis.

  I didn’t say tell me who it is.

  What’s the tune, then?

  . . . .

  It’s named after one of the most famous ancient Greek