from Lucy’s gut, things got a little awkward when Mom
realized the vet tech wasn’t holding up her lingerie.
Dang.
Yeah. It’s an embarrassing story. But I’m starting to wonder
if I’ll ever trust another guy because of it.
Not all men are like that, Sam. Not my dad, not me.
No, I know. It’s only the jerks who like me and my mom.
Things happen, and sometimes people pick the wrong
people.
Maybe. Don’t ever tell anyone what I just told you, Noah.
Promise.
I promise.
You don’t have any secrets, Noah. Never have. You’re a
perfectly normal guy.
. . . .
King of Heartbreaks
As I’m leaving,
her phone rings.
Again.
Cruz.
It’s definitely him calling.
We both stare
at the phone,
at each other,
at nothing
and everything.
Please, don’t answer, I think.
He probably wants her back.
Please, don’t answer.
I see a sparkle of hope in her eyes,
the feeling you get
when there’s snow
on the ground
and you get an alert
that school is cancelled.
The promise of possibility.
She’s going to answer.
She’s. Going. To. Answer.
Run back
into his suffocating arms,
and I’ll be eating
ice cream by myself.
Please, don’t answer.
Text to Swing
5:32 pm
Swing, I’m leaving Sam’s house.
Wanna hang?
Where are you?
Text from Swing
5:39 pm
The batting cage.
Come watch the magic, bro.
Baby Bonds is a machine.
Ceiling lights
beam down
on Walt,
and—Wait, what’s he doing here?
Yo, Noah!
Hey . . . Floyd.
In between
Walt’s mostly missed
few hits,
Floyd pitches
a string
of curveball metaphors.
The Metaphors
You’ve got to use your love muscle or it loses strength . . .
Muscle has memory, just like your brain . . . Your heart
is your greatest muscle. Without it, you miss the ball . . .
You gotta reset . . . You need to think about what’s in
your head and what’s getting in the way of the big hit . . .
Relationships are the same way . . . If you strike out, you’re
just plain doin’ something wrong. You’re not taking this
thing seriously . . . A bat is like cupid’s arrow . . . You only
have so many chances before you strike out . . . Ya know,
a fly ball is like a relationship; once it catches air, your
chances for a home run are pretty good . . . But, you can’t
miss her signal. If you do, you need to reset. It’s up to you
to hit the ball and run to first, slide into all the bases . . .
You keep striking out, you need to stop and think, what am
I doing wrong?
What am I doing wrong, Floyd? I ask.
Out of two hundred balls
Walt hits forty.
He’s getting better
at the stance,
at the swing,
at the hit;
and either Floyd’s metaphors
are getting less worse
by the minute
or I’m starting
to understand
and believe his guru-ish.
Floyd heard what you’re doing, bro.
Doing? What do you mean? I ask him.
He’s talking about your anonymous art thingies, Walt
chimes in.
You told him?
He’s just looking out for you, bro. It’s all good.
You suck, Walt, I say, as he smacks a pitch real good, to
his surprise. And mine.
Have you been listening to The Woohoo Woman?
I tried to tell him to, Floyd.
Shut up, Walt. I’ve been listening. In general.
But you’re lying. And when you’re lying, you’re not
listening.
I’m not lying. I took your advice and wrote her.
The art of the secret love letter is smooth. Floyd gives you
an A plus for ingenuity and delivery, but an F minus for
execution.
What? Why? She loves them.
Have you told her it’s you yet?
Not exactly.
He hasn’t, Floyd.
What’s the point in winning her heart if she can’t hold
yours in it?
. . . .
It’s time to write your own life. Let her get to know the real
Noah and how he truly feels.
I agree, Walt says.
Floyd gets up
in my face,
so close,
I can tell
he doesn’t floss.
Then he shoves
his hand
into
my pants pocket.
I squirm.
Dude, what are you doing?
Showing you the signal, making sure you don’t strike out.
Write your life, Noah. Bring X to life, he says, grabbing
my car keys.
Let her know who you really are at heart, he says,
pounding his heart with one hand and dangling my car
keys with the other. You can have these back when Floyd
sees you’re really trying. Walt, you’ll report back to me?
Sure thing, cuz!
Floyd, come on, man. How are we supposed to get home?
Come to Dairy Queen for your ride when the mission is
complete.
Walt grabs his bat and glove, and follows his cousin.
Hey, where are you going?
I’m already on base. I got a girl. I’m riding with coach, he
says, dapping Floyd, and
following him
to my car.
Spur of the Moment
On the walk home,
while I daydream
of Sam,
I pass by
Out with the Old
and decide
to stop in.
Thrifting and Riffing
The door dings,
and Divya pops up
from behind the counter
with paper towels
and Windex.
Hey, you.
Hey.
Shopping alone today?
I guess you can say that.
Anything special you’re looking for?
Inspiration.
She laughs,
adjusts her glasses.
Well, make it fast, ’cause I close at nine.
I need something that’ll make me move.
Move?
As in forward. Reach beyond myself, dig deep. I need to
go, Divya. Like really GO!
You need some Dexter.
I’m not sure becoming a serial killer is the answer.
No, silly, not that Dexter. Dexter Gordon. Best music ever,
she says, walking over to the old record section. This is
the only one we have of his, but it’s pure, unadulterated
jazz genius. Inspiration on so many levels.
You and Walt are obsessed with jazz.
Great minds think alike, she says, handing me a Dexter
album called GO!
Wait, that’s actually the name of it, GO? Dang,
you’re
good.
It was his favorite album. Full of grace, pleasure, and
confidence. Listen to it; it’ll make you wanna get up and
GO!
How much is it?
Your money’s no good here. It’s on the house. Consider it a
thank you.
For what?
For introducing me to Swing.
You know no one seriously calls him that but you.
It’s kinda cute. He asked me out on a date. Should I go?
As long as he doesn’t take you to the batting cages.
He’s there a lot. Pretty committed.
Delusional too. You should go out with him.
I’m thinking about it. I sort of like him. He’s not a crazy
guy, is he?
Over-the-top crazy, but the coolest guy I know. Unique,
one-of-a-kind, you’ll-never-meet-anyone-like-him kind of
crazy.
I can dig that.
Thanks for the record.
GO get ’em, Noah.
Ha.
When I get home
sitting
on my front porch,
with his eyes closed
and music blasting
from my Bluetooth speaker,
is my best friend.
What are you doing?
Meditating, he says, with his eyes still closed.
Sitting
in the driveway
is my jalopy.
How’d you get the truck back?
I vouched for you, plus he was just funnin’.
Thanks, I say, grabbing the keys.
What took you so long? It’s getting chilly.
Had to make a stop.
At Sam’s?
The thrift shop, I say, and let it just hang
in the air
for a minute. Divya says hi, I add, walking
into the house.
What else did she say?
Anything about me? he asks.
No, I lie.
Really?
Just kidding.
She said she thinks you’re cute.
She said she you’re more mature than most guys
your age.
She said she’s going to see her family in India this
summer.
She said Billie Holiday’s voice is divine.
She said Herbie Hancock is good, but he’s no Erroll
Garner.
She said she hopes you’re not a stalker.
She said she was just joking.
Anything else?
Yeah, then she gave me this album, I say, showing
off my gift.
We listen
like we’re in church, on
bended knee, and our god
is Dexter Gordon.
Primer Four
GO! is a roller
coaster of emotions, a
carousel of cool,
twisting and turning,
going up and up and up,
so fast, so far, it
shoots me like a
cannonball, and when it comes
down, I am in need
of a parachute
to brace my fall after getting
so high off this groove.
Speechless
I have no words at this moment.
What do you mean?
Ask Yo Mama!
Ask yours.
No, Langston Hughes.
Deciphering your riddles is exhausting.
Ask Yo Mama is the name of an epic breakdown of jazz
that Langston Hughes wrote.
Oh.
You get it. You. Finally. Get. Jazz. The student has become
the master.
It’s a good album.
It’s a great album.
By the way, I say on my way up the stairs to my room,
Sam and Cruz broke up.
WHAT?! Dude, you should have led with that. Tell me
what happened.
Maybe tomorrow. I’m going to bed.
By the way, Langston Hughes died in New York on May
22, 1965. He had complications from prostate cancer, then
BAM! A dream interred.
. . . .
Get it?
Good night, Swing.
All Night Long
When I wake up
after dreaming
about her,
I hear Dexter Gordon
still spinning
with static sweetness
on the record player.
I think about the way
track four, “Love for Sale,”
makes me feel,
makes me shake
and bump and thump
inside and out.
How I could listen
to it over and over again.
How if Sam wanted,
I’d give her all my love
for free.
Tie it up in a bow
and overnight it
to the front door
of her heart.
And as if I’m still
hovering between
this world
and the dream world,
I hear her laugh
coming from someplace.
I creep down the stairs,
and rub my eyes twice,
because I see that I
might not be dreaming,
that she and Walt
are talking and laughing
like it’s four o’clock
in the afternoon.
What are you doing here?
Is that the way we greet our oldest and dearest friends,
Noah? Sam says, while Walt looks on with a big,
suspicious smile written all over his face.
Hey, Sam.
Hey, Noah.
What’s going on here? I ask.
After you bailed on me last night, I called her and she
sounded down, so we talked for three hours, Walt says.
Want some eggs?
I thought you didn’t like talking on the phone.
Well, mostly he listened. It was really special. I see why this
older girl likes our dude, Noah. He’s a good listener.
Yeah, I say, shaking my head.
And then I invited her to breakfast, ’cause again, you
bailed on me, and I needed someone to help me solve a
problem.
Noah, your big party is in a week, and it’s like you guys
haven’t done anything.
So, you’re here to help plan the party?
Sam to the rescue. It’s gonna be the bash of the year, she
says. Plus, I need something to get my mind off him.
. . . .
But that’s not even the biggest problem, Walt says.
Our dude here has gotten himself into a bit of a pickle,
Noah. Divya is taking him out on a date.
And why’s that a problem?
Because I’ve never been on a date, so Sam’s been schooling
me on what to do, how to carry myself, and all that jazz.
Oh.
But there’s one thing I can’t help him with.
Yeah, Divya’s taking me to a museum, and it’s one filled
with the one thing I don’t know anything about. Art.
So, how can I help?
Didn’t you used to paint, like, a bunch of portraits back in
third grade? he asks, winking at me.
Yeah, I remember that too, Sam says. In fifth grade, we
went to the children’s museum on a field trip. Didn’t you
make a collage during the arts and crafts lesson and—
And the teacher framed it and put it in our class. Dude, you
had some skills back then. Too bad you gave it up, he says,
winking again.
Yeah, too bad, I add.
But you loved it, and I remember you used to
check out
a lot of art books from the library, so I just figured you
remembered a lot of that, and maybe you could give me a
quick lesson, he continues.
Whose book is this? Sam asks, holding up
my large, thick copy of Art Magna:
The World’s Greatest Art, with
a suspicious smile
that I can’t ignore.
Walt and I both look
at each other,
him with a smile,
me with a frown,
’cause once again
he’s throwing me
a curveball
that I can’t hit.
That’s my mom’s, I lie. Dad gave it to her for her birthday.
And I’m not even into art that much anymore, guys.
Noah, just give him something that’ll make him sound
intelligent, informed. C’mon, help Swing out.
Oh, so you’re calling him that now too?
It’s growing on me.
Yeah, help a brother out, Noah. Tell me about art.
Art is expression of human creativity, skill, and
imagination, all at the same time, typically in a visual
form such as a painting or sculpture, that uses beauty to
evoke powerful emotion, I dictate from the dictionary
app on my phone.
Seriously, Noah, Sam says, we could have done that by
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