The Crossover

by Kwame Alexander

  Uh, right. You have any siblings, Alexis?

  Two sisters. I’m the youngest.

  And the prettiest.

  You haven’t seen them.

  I don’t need to.

  That’s sweet.

  Sweet as pomegranate.

  Okay, that was random.

  That’s me.

  Jordan, can I ask you something?

  Yep.

  Did you get my text?

  Uh, yeah.

  So, what’s your answer?

  Uh, my answer. I don’t know.

  Stop being silly, Jordan.

  I’m not.

  Then tell me your answer. Are y’all rich?

  I don’t know.

  Didn’t your dad play in the NBA?

  No, he played in Italy.

  But still, he made a lot of money, right?

  It’s not like we’re opulent.

  Who says “opulent”?

  I do.

  You never use big words like that at school . . .

  I have a reputation to uphold.

  Is he cool?

  Who?

  Your dad.

  Very.

  So, when are you gonna introduce me?

  Introduce you?

  To your parents.

  I’m waiting for the right moment.

  Which is when?

  Uh—

  So, am I your girlfriend or not?

  Uh, can you hold on for a second?

  Sure, she says.

  Cover the mouthpiece, JB mouths to me.

  I do, then whisper to him:

  She wants to know are you her boyfriend.

  And when are you gonna introduce her

  to Mom and Dad. What should I tell her, JB?

  Tell her yeah, I guess, I mean, I don’t know.

  I gotta pee, JB says, running

  out of the room, leaving me still in his shoes.

  Okay, I’m back, Alexis.

  So, what’s the verdict, Jordan?

  Do you want to be my girlfriend?

  Are you asking me to be your girl?

  Uh, I think so.

  You think so? Well, I have to go now.

  Yes.

  Yes, what?

  I like you. A lot.

  I like you, too . . . Precious.

  So, now I’m Precious?

  Everyone calls you JB.

  Then I guess it’s official.

  Text me later.

  Good night, Miss Sweet—

  What did you call me?

  Uh, good night, my sweetness.

  Good night, Precious.

  JB comes running out of the bathroom.

  What’d she say, Josh? Come on, tell me.

  She said she likes me a lot, I tell him.

  You mean she likes me a lot? he asks.

  Yeah . . .

  that’s what I meant.

  JB and I

  eat lunch

  together

  every day,

  taking bites

  of Mom’s

  tuna salad

  on wheat

  between arguments:

  Who’s the better dunker,

  Blake or LeBron?

  Which is superior,

  Nike

  or Converse?

  Only today

  I wait

  at our table

  in the back

  for twenty-five minutes,

  texting Vondie

  (home sick),

  eating a fruit cup

  (alone),

  before I see

  JB strut

  into the cafeteria

  with Miss Sweet Tea

  holding his

  precious hand.

  Boy walks into a room

  with a girl.

  They come over.

  He says, Hey, Filthy McNasty

  like he’s said forever,

  but it sounds different

  this time,

  and when he snickers,

  she does too,

  like it’s some inside joke,

  and my nickname,

  some dirty

  punch

  line.

  At practice

  Coach says we need to work

  on our mental game.

  If we think

  we can beat Independence Junior High—

  the defending champions,

  the number one seed,

  the only other undefeated team—

  then we will.

  But instead of drills

  and sprints,

  we sit on our butts,

  make weird sounds—

  Ohmmmmmmmm Ohmmmmmmmm—

  and meditate.

  Suddenly I get this vision

  of JB in a hospital.

  I quickly open my eyes,

  turn around,

  and see him looking dead

  at me like he’s just seen

  a ghost.

  Second-Person

  After practice, you walk home alone.

  This feels strange to you, because

  as long as you can remember

  there has always been a second person.

  On today’s long, hot mile,

  you bounce your basketball,

  but your mind

  is on something else.

  Not whether you will make the playoffs.

  Not homework.

  Not even what’s for dinner.

  You wonder what JB

  and his pink Reebok–wearing girlfriend are doing.

  You do not want to go to the library.

  But you go.

  Because your report on The Giver is due

  tomorrow.

  And JB has your copy.

  But he’s with her.

  Not here with you.

  Which is unfair.

  Because he doesn’t argue

  with you about who’s the greatest,

  Michael Jordan or Bill Russell,

  like he used to.

  Because JB will not eat lunch

  with you tomorrow

  or the next day,

  or next week.

  Because you are walking home

  by yourself

  and your brother owns the world.

  Third Wheel

  You walk into the library,

  glance over at the music section.

  You look through the magazines.

  You even sit at a desk and pretend to study.

  You ask the librarian where you can find The Giver.

  She says something odd:

  Did you find your friend?

  Then she points upstairs.

  On the second floor,

  you pass by the computers.

  Kids checking their Facebook.

  More kids in line waiting

  to check their Facebook.

  In the Biography section

  you see an old man

  reading The Tipping Point.

  You walk down the last aisle,

  Teen Fiction,

  and come to the reason you’re here.

  You remove the book

  from the shelf.

  And there,

  behind the last row of books,

  you find

  the “friend”

  the librarian was talking about.

  Only she’s not your friend

  and she’s kissing

  your brother.

  tip·ping point

  [TIH-PING POYNT] noun

  The point

  when an object shifts

  from one position

  into a new,

  entirely different one.

  As in: My dad says the tipping point

  of our country’s economy

  was housing gamblers

  and greedy bankers.

  As in: If we get one C

  on our report cards,

  I’m afraid

  Mom will reach

  her tippi
ng point

  and that will be the end

  of basketball.

  As in: Today at the library,

  I went upstairs,

  walked down an aisle,

  pulled The Giver

  off the shelf,

  and found

  my tipping point.

  The main reason I can’t sleep

  is not because

  of the game tomorrow tonight,

  is not because

  the stubble on my head feels

  like bugs are break dancing on it,

  is not even because I’m worried about Dad.

  The main reason

  I can’t sleep tonight

  is because

  Jordan is on the phone

  with Miss Sweet Tea

  and between the giggling

  and the breathing

  he tells her

  how much she’s

  the apple of

  his eye

  and that he wants

  to peel her

  and get under her skin

  and give me a break.

  I’m still hungry

  and right about now

  I wish I had

  an apple

  of my own.

  Surprised

  I have it all planned out.

  When we walk to the game

  I will talk to JB

  man to man

  about how he’s spending

  way more time with Alexis

  than with me

  and Dad.

  Except when I hear

  the horn,

  I look outside

  my window and it’s raining

  and JB is jumping

  into a car

  with Miss Sweet Tea and her dad,

  ruining my plan.

  Conversation

  In the car

  I ask Dad

  if going to the doctor

  will kill him.

  He tells me

  he doesn’t trust doctors,

  that my grandfather did

  and look where it got him:

  six feet under

  at forty-five.

  But Mom says your dad

  was really sick, I tell him,

  and Dad just rolls his eyes,

  so I try something different.

  I tell him

  that just because your teammate

  gets fouled on a lay-up

  doesn’t mean you shouldn’t

  ever drive to the lane again.

  He looks at me and

  laughs so loud,

  we almost don’t hear

  the flashing blues

  behind us.

  Game Time: 6:00 p.m.

  At 5:28 p.m.

  a cop

  pulls us over

  because Dad has

  a broken

  taillight.

  At 5:30

  the officer approaches

  our car

  and asks Dad

  for his driver’s license

  and registration.

  At 5:32

  the team leaves

  the locker room and

  pregame warm-ups

  begin

  without me.

  At 5:34

  Dad explains

  to the officer

  that his license

  is in his wallet,

  which is in his jacket

  at home.

  At 5:37

  Dad says, Look, sir,

  my name is Chuck Bell,

  and I’m just trying

  to get my boy

  to his basketball game.

  At 5:47

  while Coach leads

  the Wildcats

  in team prayer,

  I pray Dad

  won’t get arrested.

  At 5:48

  the cop smiles

  after verifying

  Dad’s identity

  on Google, and says,

  You “Da Man”!

  At 5:50

  Dad autographs

  a Krispy Kreme napkin

  for the officer

  and gets a warning

  for his broken taillight.

  At 6:01

  we arrive at the game

  but on my sprint

  into the gym

  I slip and fall

  in the mud.

  This is my second year

  playing

  for the Reggie Lewis Wildcats

  and I’ve started every game

  until tonight,

  when Coach tells me

  to go get cleaned up

  then find a seat

  on the bench.

  When I try to tell him

  it wasn’t my fault,

  he doesn’t want to hear

  about sirens and broken taillights.

  Josh, better an hour too soon

  than a minute too late, he says,

  turning his attention back

  to JB and the guys

  on the court,

  all of whom are pointing

  and laughing

  at me.

  Basketball Rule #6

  A great team

  has a good scorer

  with a teammate

  who’s on point

  and ready

  to assist.

  Josh’s Play-by-Play

  At the beginning

  of the second half

  we’re up twenty-three to twelve.

  I enter the game

  for the first time.

  I’m just happy

  to be back on the floor.

  When my brother and I

  are on the court together

  this team is

  unstoppable,

  unfadeable.

  And, yes,

  undefeated.

  JB brings the ball up the court.

  Passes the ball to Vondie.

  He shoots it back to JB.

  I call for the ball.

  JB finds me in the corner.

  I know y’all think

  it’s time for the pick-and-roll,

  but I got something else in mind.

  I get the ball on the left side.

  JB is setting the pick.

  Here it comes—

  I roll to his right.

  The double-team is on me,

  leaving JB free.

  He’s got his hands in the air,

  looking for the dish

  from me.

  Dad likes to say,

  When Jordan Bell is open

  you can take his three to the bank,

  cash it in, ’cause it’s all money.

  Tonight, I’m going for broke.

  I see JB’s still wide open.

  McDonald’s drive-thru open.

  But I got my own plans.

  The double-team is still on me

  like feathers on a bird.

  Ever seen an eagle soar?

  So high, so fly.

  Me and my wings are—

  and that’s when I remember:

  MY. WINGS. ARE. GONE.

  Coach Hawkins is out of his seat.

  Dad is on his feet, screaming.

  JB’s screaming.

  The crowd’s screaming,

  FILTHY, PASS THE BALL!

  The shot clock is at 5.

  I dribble out of the double-team.

  4

  Everything comes to a head.

  3

  I see Jordan.

  2

  You want it that bad? HERE YA GO!

  1 . . .

  Before

  Today, I walk into the gym

  covered in more dirt than a chimney.

  When JB screams FILTHY’S McNasty,

  the whole team laughs. Even Coach.

  Then I get benched for the entire first half. For being late.

  Today, I watch as we take a big lead,

  and JB makes fou
r threes in a row.

  I hear the crowd cheer for JB, especially Dad and Mom.

  Then I see JB wink at Miss Sweet Tea

  after he hits a stupid free throw.

  Today, I finally get into the game

  at the start of the second half.

  JB sets a wicked pick for me

  just like Coach showed us in practice,

  And I get double-teamed on the roll

  just like we expect.

  Today, I watch JB get open and wave for me to pass.

  Instead I dribble, trying to get out of the trap,

  and watch as Coach and Dad scream

  for me to pass.

  Today, I plan on passing the ball to JB,

  but when I hear him say “FILTHY,

  give me the ball,” I dribble

  over to my brother

  and fire a pass

  so hard,

  it levels him,

  the blood