Swing

by Kwame Alexander

Well, not really pray,

  but hope

  he’s moved on.

  This is my time.

  This is our time.

  Olive Garden

  I wanted to take Sam

  to Ruth’s Chris steakhouse,

  but I’ve decided I don’t do

  red meat anymore, she says,

  plus it would have depleted

  the cash my parents left

  for me, and I already owe Walt,

  so we hit

  Olive Garden.

  We eat bottomless salad

  and breadsticks,

  drink tap water,

  and split a chicken parm.

  I can’t stop staring

  at the cute way

  she chews her food,

  and how she

  looks up at me

  with those eyes

  when she takes a sip

  of water.

  I feel like we

  could do this

  for a very long time,

  maybe forever.

  Give-and-Take

  I don’t care

  that she doesn’t do

  jazz or

  beef,

  that she doesn’t like

  the way I drive

  or dance, and

  quite a few

  other things

  that I do.

  All that matters

  is that we

  own Venus.

  Are You Kidding Me?

  Move over! I hear.

  I look up

  and see

  Swing and Divya.

  What are you guys doing here? You follow us?

  Ha! Thought you were strapped for cash. Didn’t you beg

  for me to buy you salt and vinegar chips just yesterday?

  Play nice, boys, Sam says. Hi, Divya, nice to see you again.

  Hey, Sam. We’re celebrating the big news, Divya says, as

  Walt, uninvited, slides in next to me.

  Celebrating what?

  And next up to bat is . . .

  In Full Swing

  Junior Wilson,

  the star outfielder,

  is out

  for four weeks

  because he sprained

  his pinky toe

  trying to be Superman.

  After seeing him

  for the tenth time

  in a row

  at the batting cages,

  Coach called Swing

  to sub,

  so now

  he’s playing varsity

  for the rest

  of the season,

  and he can’t stop grinning,

  and he can’t stop yapping

  about how great

  he’s gonna be

  way out

  in left field.

  After I congratulate Walt

  for finally making the team,

  I sit back and study

  his chirpy grin

  as he stuffs his face

  with my breadsticks.

  I’m annoyed.

  Annoyed like gnats

  needling my soul.

  I should be excited for him,

  proud of him,

  celebrating him.

  But, I’m annoyed.

  Not salty and jealous annoyed, though.

  Why couldn’t I have

  worked harder,

  said yes more,

  made the team

  like Swing,

  have Sam see me

  as something

  other than

  a lovelorn artist?

  I want to tell Walt

  how I feel

  insecure and unsettled,

  share my frustration

  and defeatist attitude

  with my greatest counselor,

  but since he’s the root cause,

  The Offender,

  I can’t tell him jack.

  Plus, he’d just tell me

  to embrace all the feels

  and hug life.

  I didn’t get a call

  to join the team,

  but I’ve got her.

  I’ve got her crimson-brown eyes

  that sparkle when

  I make her laugh.

  I have her billion-dollar smile

  she gives me

  right before we kiss.

  I have her soft hand

  that caresses mine

  when we walk.

  I have her whole being

  that fits

  perfectly inside

  my embrace

  at the end of the day.

  I’ve got my own home run.

  Her.

  Boundaries

  What a perfect night.

  It was nice, she says, putting her head on my shoulder.

  I’m sleepy though.

  The light turns red,

  and I turn

  to kiss her.

  Turn right, she says.

  I thought we were going to my house.

  I should go home.

  Why?

  Noah, let’s take this slow. I know that sounds cliché . . . I

  don’t want this to be a Lifetime movie.

  Okay. How slow?

  The Anatomy of a Kiss

  It starts in a car

  parked on her street

  under lamplight,

  the urge

  to move closer.

  The engine off,

  windows cracked,

  our shadows overlapping.

  Our noses touch.

  Our breath quickens.

  We’ve kissed

  at least a dozen times,

  but this feels

  like the first,

  the only.

  I’ll see you next week.

  You don’t want to get together this weekend?

  Going to see colleges with my mom.

  Oh.

  You’re cute when you’re sad. Bye, Noah, she says, leaving

  me

  bewitched,

  bothered,

  and bewildered.

  Caught in a Love Haze

  I’m definitely in love,

  I think

  as I drive

  in a daze,

  changing lanes

  without signaling,

  getting lost

  on streets

  I’ve known

  for years.

  I’m definitely in love,

  I say

  to the wind

  as I slam

  on brakes,

  almost hitting

  something—

  no, someone—

  running

  across the street

  holding a large flag.

  When I get home

  sitting on my front stoop,

  now wearing a baseball cap

  and brand-new Rams jersey,

  looking beaten

  and dismal

  with both hands

  holding up

  his head,

  is Baby Bonds.

  I got the blues, Noah, and I got ’em bad, he says.

  The Blues

  You’re back.

  Back? What do you mean?

  You haven’t really been here in days.

  Oh, did you miss me?

  . . . .

  Look, you and Sam have been doing your thing, and me

  and Divya have been doing our thing. We both needed our

  space to be in the place. But now, I got the blues.

  Things with Divya good?

  They were. Until, they weren’t.

  What happened?

  I think I’m in trouble.

  Why?

  ’Cause she kissed me.

  Isn’t that what you wanted?

  On my neck.

  Oh.

  Yeah!

  . . . .

  . . . .

  But, wait, what does that mean?

  It doesn’t mean she wa
nts to engage in witty conversation

  and occasional verbal sparring.

  She wants to—

  EXACTLY! And I don’t know what to do.

  Well, don’t ask me. My world just got rocked by a six-

  second kiss that felt like sixty.

  I know what we need.

  Please, no more Woohoo Woman!

  I know exactly who we need.

  Don’t say what I think you’re gonna say.

  Let’s gas up the truck and go for some dipped cones.

  Seriously?

  No Fries, Just More . . . Floyd

  Hey, fellas, Floyd’s closing. Whatcha need? Already threw

  the fries out.

  No fries, just advice, cuz.

  Floyd can do that, he says. Heard you’re playing ball.

  Yeah. And Mo’s back.

  Yeah, he came by. He was looking rough.

  Just tired.

  Nah, man, tattered, disheveled. Talked like he had heavy-

  ish things on his mind.

  Really? Walt says.

  Floyd thinks he got a little shocked over there.

  . . . .

  You know we were tight back in the day. We used to run

  things at Westside High. Floyd’ll come by and holla at

  him. He staying with y’all?

  Actually, I’m not sure where he’s staying.

  Cool. Anyway, what can Floyd do for you?

  I got an older woman.

  How old?

  By two years.

  That’s like a dozen dog years.

  Actually, it’s not, I say.

  Makes no never mind. So, what’s the problem?

  She’s moving too fast for me.

  Oh.

  So what should I do, Floyd?

  Where Floyd Tells Walt What to Do

  and It Makes No Sense Whatsoever

  1.Don’t take her to dinner on Mondays. Everybody’s in a bad mood on Mondays.

  2.When you massage her feet, use lavender oil, not peppermint (that could be risky).

  3.Leave her love notes on Wednesdays, but not every Wednesday, because she’ll become accustomed to receiving love notes every single Wednesday, and if you ever forget, Lord, you’ll be in trouble. Trust Floyd on that one.

  4.Spring her a surprise now and again, but make sure the surprise has tickets in them. Tickets to somewhere. Or lottery tickets. Everybody needs tickets in life to feel like something special is about to happen.

  5.Take her to the movies on Fridays, but don’t buy popcorn or slushies. That’s cliché and you might get bloated and gas her outta the car on the ride home.

  6.Always keep her on her toes, switch things up, be a gentleman, and sing her songs that’ll make her cry.

  7.Eat the pizza she likes.

  But, what about how fast she’s moving? Walt says.

  No idea, little cousin, he says. Floyd never had to deal

  with that. Gotta run. Good luck, though.

  Special Something

  Walt is definitely unsettled,

  ’cause he doesn’t stay up

  watching movies

  or listening

  to music

  all night.

  He just plops

  himself down

  on the couch

  and passes out,

  but not before

  he says,

  Oh, I forgot to give you something.

  What?

  Sam told me to hide it in your room or somewhere, but I’m

  too exhausted. Here, he says, handing me an envelope.

  Good night. Gotta be ready for the big game Tuesday.

  We’re tied for first place.

  Thanks, I say, taking the envelope.

  Did you hear what I said, yo? We’re. In. First. Place.

  Yay.

  Phone Conversation

  Whatchu doing?

  Thinking of you.

  Awww, that’s sweet.

  . . . .

  How’d you like my masterpiece?

  I give you a B+

  WHAT! I put a lot of work into that!

  Just kidding.

  It’s like a recipe for love.

  Yeah, I got that.

  You’re mean.

  Seriously, thank you for it. I love it. You don’t know how

  much I love it.

  Well, you made me feel special when I wasn’t feeling so

  great, and I wanted to thank you for showing me how

  much you care.

  Care . . . you’re more than someone I care about.

  Sam . . . I love you. I love you so much.

  She’s silent.

  Just long enough

  for me

  to feel awkward.

  Hey, Walt’s big game is next week. You coming with me?

  Of course, wouldn’t miss it for anything.

  What about this weekend? What should we do?

  Do you even listen to me? Remember, my mom’s taking me

  to some colleges.

  Oh, yeah.

  Talk tomorrow, Noah. Bye.

  Don’t go yet.

  . . . .

  Click.

  The Big Game

  As we wait

  on the bleachers

  for the game

  to start, it’s

  an unbelievable feeling

  to have

  my girl

  by my side when

  I’m getting ready

  to cheer my

  best friend.

  Feels like

  rebirth.

  Smells like

  her wild orchid perfume

  and tastes like

  salted pretzels,

  popcorn, soda,

  Skittles.

  I can’t believe this is Walt’s first high school game. He’s

  been dreaming of this day since I met him, I say, pouring

  Skittles into my mouth.

  It’s incredible. A testament of his perseverance. It’s a good

  quality to have. We all could use a little more of what

  Walt’s got.

  Yeah. I guess you’re right, I say, inching closer and

  throwing my arm around her.

  I really care about you, Noah. Your friendship has meant

  the world to me all these years.

  She takes a handful

  of popcorn,

  shoves it

  into her mouth,

  and chomps

  like she didn’t just say that.

  Friendship?

  I thought

  we moved past

  the friendzone

  when we kissed

  for the eightieth time

  this morning,

  is what I’m thinking.

  But I don’t say a word.

  Instead, I ride out

  the awkwardness,

  hold her tight.

  Realization

  In our silence,

  with the sound of

  the baseball team gathering,

  it occurs to me she might sense

  that there’s something about all of this

  that’s a fraud,

  and that might be

  what’s holding her back

  from loving me too.

  Caught in the Truth

  Sam, there’s something I’ve got to tell you.

  Okay.

  Walt gave you the first one.

  The first what?

  The first love letter.

  WALT WROTE THEM?

  NO! He just gave it to you. It was his idea.

  Oh.

  I’m sorry. I was just a little scared.

  But, you wrote it, so—

  So, those first few letters I gave you, I didn’t exactly write

  them all by myself—I found letters from the sixties by a

  guy named Corinthian, picked out the words that spoke

  to me, then I created the art.

  Wait. Wh
at? You didn’t write any of them? And who in the

  world is Corinthian? How did you get his letters?

  I wrote some of them, just not the first couple. I mean, I

  borrowed—

  I’m confused, Noah. Did you write them or not?

  I found these love letters in the Keepall I gave my mom

  for her birthday. They were hidden underneath a tear at

  the bottom of the purse. So, mine were inspired by this

  dude named Corinthian, who wrote love letters to his

  girlfriend back in the 1960s.

  . . . .

  But all the latest ones, the ones I read you at the party,

  the ones I read to you in front of everyone to express how

  I feel . . . those were completely mine, Sam.

  . . . .

  I’m sorry, Sam.

  I’m glad you told me.

  You mad?

  Just confused. If those weren’t your words, then—

  But it was my art. My heart. My. Every. Word. Every

  color. Every ounce of me was on those pages.

  . . . .

  You are mad.

  I’m okay.

  She says

  she’s okay,

  so why do I feel

  like a child

  who’s just been caught

  cheating

  or stealing?

  Love is a many-splendored thing,

  and there’s no going back

  on the truth,

  are the things