two-hour special class
that your mom signed you up for
that you can’t wait
to get to
because you get to spend
two hours
in the same room
with April.
Can’t today, you lie.
Gotta catch up
on some homework.
At Miss Quattlebaum’s School of Ballroom Dance & Etiquette
the boys
must address
the girls
as Milady.
Milady, may I take your coat?
Milady, may I please have this dance?
Milady, sorry my hands are clammy!
After you learn
how to properly
shake hands,
(Firm, but gentle. Not limp,
like a wet noodle. Up and down,
for two to five seconds.)
Quattlebaum chooses dance partners.
When she gets to you,
there are two girls left:
April, and a girl with chronic halitosis.
Guess who you get?
Yuck.
Chivalry
You plan to open the door for April
but the guy in front of you presses PUSH TO OPEN.
Still, she smiles your way, and you do the same, till
you see your mom out front, in the car, waiting
to embarrass you.
PLEASE. DON’T. BLOW. THE. HORN.
Hi, Nick.
Uh, hel . . . lo, uh, April
That was a fun class, wasn’t it.
. . .
Sorry we didn’t get to dance tonight.
Uh . . . yeah . . . I . . . uh.
Do you want my numb—
BEEEEEEEEEEEEP
BEEEEEEEEEEP
BWONNNNNNNK!
Hi, I’m Nick’s mom, nice to meet you, Mom screams out
the passenger window as you jump in.
Hi, Mrs. Hall.
Hello, darling, what’s your—
Mom, stop. Bye, April. Please Mom, drive. ARGGH!
The Pact
Ninth grade is five months from now
when you and Coby have vowed
to have a girlfriend or die.
Ever since first grade
you and Coby
have been as tight
as a pair
of shin guards.
Star footballers and
always teammates, until now.
Even though
you’re on the same
indoor soccer team
(which is cool),
for the first time ever,
you play for different
travel clubs
(which is not).
See, you both tried out
for the Under 15.
You made the A team.
He didn’t.
But there was no freakin’ way
the GREAT Coby
was playing
on a B team.
So his mom drove him
thirty miles to try out
for another club,
and now
the most dangerous player
on the rival soccer club
also happens to be
your best friend.
Best Friend
Coby Lee
is from Singapore. Sorta.
He was born there, like his dad, but
his mom’s from Ghana,
which is where he learned fútbol
before they moved
here.
All before
Coby turned five.
You absolutely love soccer.
But Coby’s married to it.
Committed like breathing
to it.
It’s all he talks
and thinks about.
In math class
he made a pie chart
of the winningest
World Cup
jersey numbers
of the past fifty years.
Half of his room
is painted
red and gold
with cool posters
of the Ghana Black Stars.
The other half,
red and white
with posters of
the Singapore Lions
plastered
on the walls.
He’s even got
a ball
autographed
by Essien
who he met
on his last trip
to Ghana.
Unfortunately,
you rarely see
any of this
because
your best friend’s room
always smells
like skunk pee
and funky freakin’
feet.
Bragging Rights
After practice
you’re psyched
to call Coby
and brag
about the awesome letter
your coach read
to the team,
wishing you could
see the look
on his face
when you drop
the news.
Instead, what drops
is your mouth
when he laughs
and says,
Yeah, we got one too.
The Letter
Dear Coach,
Your team is invited to compete
in the Dr. Pepper Dallas Cup,
the renowned world youth soccer tournament.
Since 1980, the Dallas Cup has given
talented and up-and-coming players
the opportunity to compete against
marquee teams from across the globe.
Notable alumni include David Beckham,
Real Madrid’s Chicharito, and the former NBA
champion Hakeem Olajuwon.
Many top college and pro scouts will be in attendance,
as well as more than 100,000 fans.
Congratulations on this honor, and
we look forward to hosting you
this spring.
Dad’s back in town
which means
you’re in his study
surrounded by ten-foot walls
lined with books.
You’re thinking
of April/Dallas/Anything
to avoid
reading
the last few dreadful pages
of this dreadful book.
On a large red leather couch
Dad lounges.
You’re in a brick-hard
cushion-less seat.
Exercising. Your eyes.
Bored.
You sneak your phone out
while he’s glued to
some book by a guy
named Rousseau,
who, ironically,
according to Wikipedia,
is quoted as having said,
I hate books.
Trash Talk
Nick, Dallas is gonna be insane, Coby texts.
On fire like butane, you respond.
My team’s coming through like a freight train.
We’re taking off like a jet plane.
Well, I’ve scored more goals than you.
Well, I’m on the better team.
We’re undefeated.
So are we.
I’m co-captain of my team.
So am I.
You know my ancestors invented soccer in China over four thousand—
You’re from Singapore, dude.
Nick, I don’t have time
to school you
on nineteenth-century migration
from Southern China.
The point is I’m the quickest
striker
in the league and
on earth.
IN YOUR MIND!
I’m the fastest bro
in the game.
Co
by Lightning’s my name.
In fact,
I’m so quick
I could probably
catch myself.
. . .
Nick, you still there?
PUT. THE. PHONE. AWAY, Nicholas
and finish your reading.
I’m finished, you lie.
What’d you think?
It was, uh, interesting.
Put the phone on my desk, and complete your assignment.
But, it’s late, Dad, and I’m tired, and I have school tomorrow.
Do me a favor and stop complaining about trying to be excellent.
Whatever, you mumble.
What did you say?
Nothing. I need to use the bathroom.
Then go. And bring me a pillow from the guest room.
Why?
Because I need a pillow.
You’re sleeping down here?
I am. Now, hurry up. We still have to go over our words.
Your words, you mumble on your way out.
Trouble
Coby
comes up
to you
at lunch
and asks
if you knew the twins
were back
at school.
Then
he asks
if you knew
one of ’em
was in the library
talking
to April.
Dean and Don Eggelston
are pit-bull mean
eighth grade tyrants
with beards.
They used to
play
soccer
with you
and Coby
till they got kicked
out of the league
for literally tackling
opponents
and then,
get this,
biting them.
Fists of Fury
The twins live
down the block
from Langston Hughes
Middle School of the Arts,
which is why they get to go here,
since the only art
they’re interested in
is pugilism,*
as evidenced by
the flaming-red boxing gloves
they sometimes sneak
into school
to punch
other kids with
(which is how they ended up
at the Alternative Behavior Center,
or the ABC, for the past year).
The library door
swings open
just as you and Coby arrive.
The twins grit hard.
Hey, PUNK, Don says,
emphasizing punk, pushing
you to the ground and
stepping on
your backpack.
They stare Coby down,
like they’re gonna do something.
He stares back.
Don’t let me catch you with my girl, Dean says
to you, laughing, then kicking your
bag again, before leaving,
and never saying a word to Coby,
because even though
Dean and Don are mean dogs,
always out for blood,
and prone to bite,
they only bark
at Coby.
When you walk inside
the library
April waves
from the back corner,
but before you can wave back,
Mr. MacDonald,
the librarian,
jumps in front of you,
holding
a hardcover book
in his colossal left hand,
a neon green bowling ball
in his right,
and sporting
a way-too-big 4XL tee
that reads:
Irony: The Opposite of Wrinkly
Welcome to the Dragonfly Café
Here fellas, take a book.
Uh, no thanks, Mr. MacDonald. We just came in to—
To join Nerds and Words? Excellent, Nick. We could use some boys in our book club.
Maybe another time. I don’t really do books.
It’s a quick read—try it out this weekend.
Can’t, Mr. Mac, we got a futsal* tournament.
A book brawl tournament?
Futsal.
Your foot’s all permanent?
. . .
I heard about that thing in Ms. Hardwick’s class. You know I’m the king of malapropisms.
Uh, o-kay.
What’s up with the bowling ball, Mr. Mac?
Big game this weekend too. Got to get my match-play mojo on.
I don’t even know what that means.
So, Coby, you want to join the book club?
Pass, Coby says, laughing. Maybe if you changed the name to Books and Babes I might join.
Let us see what’s in your dragonfly box and we’ll join, you say, before
The Mac starts,
get this,
rapping:
Hey, DJ, Drop That Beat
The Mac drinks tea
in a dragonfly mug.
On the library floor
is a dragonfly rug.
The door is covered
with dragonfly pics,
’cause Skip to the Mac
is dragonfly sick.
Sometimes I wear
a dragonfly hat.
Got dragonfly this
and dragonfly that.
Around my room
are dragonfly clocks.
But please don’t touch
my dragonfly box.
’Cause if you do
I might get cross.
Respect the Mac,
Dragonfly Boss!
Skip MacDonald
The Mac
is a corny-joke-cracking,
seven-foot
bowling fanatic
with a reddish mohawk
who wears funny T-shirts
and high-top Converse sneakers.
He used to be a rap producer,
but now
he only listens to
wack elevator music, because, he says,
hip-hop is dead.
When I ask him
who killed it,
he says: Ringtones and objectification.
Which is reason #1
why he left the music business
at age twenty-nine,
to become,
get this,
a librarian?!
Reason #2 is
the brain surgery
he had
two years ago
that left him
with a scar
that runs across his head
from his left ear to his right.
But he’s the coolest adult
in our school, and
to prove it, he’s got
a Grammy Award
for best rap song
sitting right at checkout,
in plain view
for everyone to see
and touch.
Plus, he’s won
Teacher of the Year
more times than Brazil
has won
the World Cup.
(And he’s not even a teacher.)
So when he gets all geeked
about his nerdy book club
or breaks into some random rap
in the middle of a conversation,
most people smile or clap,
because we’re all just happy
The Mac’s still alive.
Huckleberry Finn-ished
Great discussion today, class.
I’m sure you all see why
Mark Twain is one
of our greatest literary
treasures, Ms. Hardwick says.
With only five minutes left in class,
it’s probable she’s forgotten
>
the assignment
she gave you,
which means
you’re off the hook.
Tomorrow, we will begin
another classic
of children’s literature.
One of my favorites,
Tuck Everlasting.
And your laughter gushes
like an open fire hydrant
’cause you could have sworn
You heard an F,
Instead of T.
I see our comedian is back.
Would you like to share
what’s so funny
with the rest of the class?
Uh, no thanks, I’m good.
Winey, the know-it-all,
a.k.a. Winnifred,
the girl who beat you
in the elementary school spelling bee,
raises her hand:
Ms. Hardwick,
wasn’t Nick supposed to
present a malapropism
to us today? she whines.
ARGGH!
Thank you, Winnifred,
Ms. Hardwick interrupts.
Nick, here’s your chance to be funny.
Were you able to find
a malapropism
in Huckleberry Finn?
No, you say,
handing her
the assignment.
I actually found two.
Class ends
when Ms. Hardwick
reads your assignment
then runs
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