Booked

  into the hallway

  cachinnating*

  like she’s about to pee

  in her polyester.

  Usually at dinner

  Mom’s asking

  random questions

  about girls and school,

  Dad’s talking

  about some new,

  weird word

  he’s found,

  and you’re eating

  as fast as you can,

  so you can finish

  and get online

  to play FIFA

  with Coby.

  But tonight is different.

  the food’s good, as usual—

  fettucine alfredo with jumbo shrimp,

  corn on the cob,

  garlic bread sticks—

  but,

  get this,

  no one’s saying a word.

  It’s like church

  during prayer.

  Dead silence. Crickets.

  Something’s not right.

  Breaking the Silence

  Can I have two hundred dollars to take to the Dallas Cup? you ask.

  That’s absurd, Nicky, Mom answers.

  Coby’s dad is giving him five hundred.

  It’s not for a while. We’ll discuss is later, she adds.

  Dad doesn’t say anything, which confirms

  that something’s up, ’cause he

  ALWAYS. HAS. SOMETHING. TO. SAY.

  Then it’s all hush-hush again.

  You clear the table,

  Mom hugs you

  longer than usual,

  then you head upstairs

  to cram

  for your math test when

  you hear Dad,

  from the living room, say,

  Nicholas, can you come in here for a minute?

  Your mother and I need to talk with you,

  and you pray

  they didn’t find out

  about the lamp

  you broke

  while kicking

  the ball

  in your room.

  No Heads-Up

  When Mom says

  she’s decided to go back to work,

  you’re not too surprised,

  ’cause you know

  how much she misses

  being around horses

  since Dad moved

  the family

  to the city

  for his teaching job.

  When she says

  she’s decided

  to take a job

  in Kentucky,

  it jolts you,

  ’cause moving away

  from your friends

  and teammates

  in the middle

  of the school year

  is vicious.

  But when she says,

  Nicky, your father and I

  are separating,

  it’s like a bombshell

  drops

  right in the center

  of your heart

  and splatters

  all across your life.

  Thought

  It does not take

  a math genius

  to understand that

  when you subtract

  a mother

  from the equation

  what remains

  is negative.

  Broken

  After you finish

  crying

  and the sadness finds

  a home

  in what’s left

  of your heart,

  you ask her

  when she’s leaving

  you.

  I’m not leaving

  YOU, Nicky. I have to go

  out next week,

  meet with the racing team,

  but I’ll be back

  every other weekend

  until the Triple Crown,

  and then I’m home

  for the summer

  and we’ll figure out

  how to fix all this.

  How is she gonna

  fix this shattered heart,

  you wonder?

  For the rest of the week

  you can’t sleep

  your head aches

  your stomach’s a wreck

  your soul’s on fire

  your parents are clueless

  you fall asleep in class

  you fail the math test

  you’re scared to talk to April

  and you’re trapped

  in a cage of misery

  with freedom

  nowhere in sight.

  If not for soccer,

  what’d be the point?

  Conversation Before the Match

  You okay, bro?

  Yeah, I’m fine.

  It’s okay to cry if you want. I heard it kills bacteria.

  Nobody’s crying.

  Are they coming?

  I think she is.

  DUDE, parents suck.

  Yep.

  They tell you why?

  Something about how they still love each other but they don’t like each other.

  That sounds like my parents, except they don’t love each other either.

  Yeah, well, they’re screwing up my life.

  So, who are you gonna live with?

  She’s moving to Kentucky.

  What’s in Kentucky?

  The Horse.

  So, what are you gonna do?

  She says I’ll be better off, for now, living with my Dad.

  She’s probably right. Do they even have soccer in Kentucky?

  Dude, me and him alone is a nightmare.

  But you can’t leave in the middle of soccer season.

  It’s not like she even asked me to come with her.

  Wait, if your mom’s moving, who’s gonna take us to school?

  I don’t wanna talk about it.

  Bro, don’t tell me we gotta take the city bus. Why can’t your dad take us?

  Why can’t your mom?

  You know she works early mornings. Plus her car is orange. I’m not going out like that.

  Then we better get bus passes.

  Sorry your parents are splitting up, bro, but this really sucks.

  I’m not trippin’. There’s Coach, let’s go.

  Playing Soccer

  is like

  never hitting pause

  on your favorite ninety-minute movie

  but futsal is like

  fast forward

  for forty

  supercharged minutes.

  Game one

  zips by

  like a pronghorn antelope,

  fast and furious,

  and just when we wind

  the corner to a record

  thirteen-goal shutout

  our goalie

  goes down

  with a,

  get this,

  broken pinkie

  toe.

  Game two

  is tied

  with twenty-nine seconds left.

  Coby passes

  the ball

  to you.

  Their best player attacks,

  steals the ball,

  passes it down court

  to an open man,

  who shoots it

  just left of our sub goalie,

  who normally plays midfielder:

  Buzzer.

  Beater.

  No Problemo

  Coach says

  we must win

  our final game

  to advance

  to the next round

  of the tournament.

  We say, No problem.

  When our opponents

  run out on the hardwood

  with their ponytails

  and matching pink shirts and socks

  carrying gym bags

  (probably filled with glittered smartphones)

  We say, No problem.

  Problemo

  The girls

  let down
r />   their ponytails,

  high-five

  their coach,

  then walk over

  to shake

  our sweaty palms

  after beating us

  five to three.

  Conversation with Mom

  How’s your dinner?

  It’s okay.

  It’s your favorite.

  Thanks.

  I heard from Ms. Hardwick. She said you fell asleep in class. Twice.

  . . .

  I know this is tough, Nicky, but you can’t slack off.

  I wasn’t asleep. I was daydreaming.

  Maybe soccer is taking too much of your time.

  It’s not.

  . . .

  . . .

  I saw some of your teammates crying after the game.

  They weren’t even really crying. It was just mewling.*

  Well, they shoulda been bawling, ’cause those girls beat y’all like rented mules.

  . . .

  They whooped y’all bad, she says, laughing and tickling.

  Stop, Mom, it’s not funny.

  You’re right, that beatdown was not funny at all.

  They’re ranked number one in the state. Nobody told us that.

  Nobody should have to tell you to play hard. Your team just gave up, Nicky.

  You mean like you and Dad . . . just gave up?

  Dear Nick

  I’m sending out a search team

  to look for your smile, ’cause it’s

  been missing. Hugs, April F.

  You Want to Talk About April, but Coby’s Mind Is on the Dallas Cup.

  Think she likes me?

  Maybe we’ll get to meet the Cowboys.

  You think she likes Dean?

  What’s your hotel?

  She said she likes my smile.

  My cousin played in the Dallas Cup.

  Your cousin Elvis, who drives an ice cream truck?

  He played Major League Soccer for a year, though.

  What should I do about April?

  For starters, talk to her, dude. You’ve never even said hello.

  I have said hello. Twice.

  Enough yapping, it’s getting dark. Let’s go play soccer.

  Can’t. Gotta get home.

  Why?

  My mom’s leaving after dinner.

  The last supper.

  Mm-hmm. Later.

  Good luck.

  Nothing Good About Bye

  I’m sorry, honey.

  I don’t understand. Everything was going great. Y’all didn’t give me any heads up.

  This doesn’t change how much we still love you.

  Mm-hmm.

  How about a game of Ping-Pong?

  Nah.

  Look, Nicky, this is tough, I know, but we’ll get through this.

  How?

  I’ll be back in two weeks, and your father and I will figure some things out, okay?

  Sure.

  No cereal for dinner, and no skipping Etiquette.

  Sure.

  There are bus passes in the kitchen drawer.

  Mm-hmm.

  One-word answers now, that’s all your mother gets?

  Are we done yet? I have some homework to finish.

  I’m gonna miss you, honey.

  What about Dad? Aren’t you gonna say goodbye to him?

  We already said our goodbyes, Nicky. Now come give me a big hug.

  . . .

  The Way a Door Closes

  From your window

  you watch

  love

  and happiness

  sink

  like twins

  in quicksand

  when

  she drives

  away,

  leaving you

  suffocating

  in sleeplessness,

  out of breath

  and hope.

  Exhausted.

  Trapped.

  F

  A

  L

  L

  I

  N

  G.

  The Next Day

  In the middle

  of Ms. Hardwick’s

  grammar lesson

  on when to use lay

  and when to use lie,

  you lay your head

  on the desk

  and doze off. zzzzzzzz

  In the hallway

  after class

  you see

  The Mac

  grinning

  like he’s just won

  the lottery,

  in a neon green T-shirt

  that says:

  Similes are like metaphors . . .

  Check it out, he says, handing

  you a sheet

  of paper with,

  get this,

  most of the words

  blacked out.

  Conversation with The Mac

  You inspired me, he says. Pretty cool, huh?

  Uh, I guess.

  Ms. Hardwick showed me your assignment. Magnificent!

  It wasn’t all that. I just didn’t feel like writing three paragraphs on why the book is ragabash.*

  Didn’t like it, huh? You’re missing out. Huckleberry Finn is a masterpiece, my friend.

  More like a disaster piece. It was way too slow.

  Hmm, you want a faster piece? I’ve got something—

  Uh, I’m good, Mr. Mac.

  I’m going to hook you up, Nick.

  How about you hook me up with that dragonfly box?

  You’re still sweating this little old box? he asks, holding it in his hand.

  Why won’t you tell us what’s inside, Mr. Mac?

  Mystery is good for the soul.

  I won’t tell anybody.

  Maybe, he says, then nudges you out the library, before

  you realize he’s put a book in your hands.

  ARGGH!

  First Dinner Without Mom

  Mustard mac-and-cheese

  smells

  as bad

  as it sounds,

  and tastes

  even worse.

  How was school?

  Fine.

  Did you finish the Rs?

  . . .

  He knows your pause means no.

  The good colleges look for extraordinary, Nicholas. You need to know these words if you want to attend a good college, Nicholas.

  College is not for, like, five years, Dad.

  Placement tests. Application essays. It’s all words, son. Know the words and you’ll excel.

  None of my friends have to memorize a thousand words. I’m not like you, Dad. Maybe I don’t want to be extraordinary. Maybe I just want to be ordinary.

  That’s a load of codswallop.* I give you the dictionary so you’ll know the world better, son. So you’ll BE better.

  . . .

  . . .

  Your mother texted me today.

  . . .

  She misses you.

  Do you miss her?

  She’s worried about you, Nicholas. Give her a call.

  You didn’t answer my question.

  It’s complicated. But we’re both still here for you.

  You’re not BOTH here. That’s the problem.

  Let’s just finish eating.

  I’m done.

  He tells you

  to take the leftovers

  for lunch.

  Yeah, right.

  After you trash them,

  you clear the table

  and make a

  bacon, ham, and cheese

  sandwich

  for your actual lunch,

  then head off to

  not sleep

  for the third night

  in a row.

  I’m sorry

  Coby says,

  juggling the ball

  with his thighs

  before passing it.

  For what? You ask,

  trapping it

  with your chest.

  For
when we beat y’all in two weeks.

  Not gonna happen, dude.

  You kick the ball back to him.

  I’m starving. Is your mom cooking?

  Nah, but we got leftovers.

  Watch this, Nick, he says,

  then dribbles

  to the center

  of his backyard and

  flame throws

  a banana kick

  so swift,

  it basically splits

  the air,

  then sizzles

  right into

  his doghouse.

  Hanging Out at Coby’s

  While he gets the grub

  you check to see

  if Dad has been

  blowing up

  your phone

  with come home texts.

  (He hasn’t.)

  There are, however,

  two texts

  and three voicemails

  from your mom

  and it’s probably not fair

  that you haven’t responded,

  but hey,

  life isn’t fair.

  She, of all people,

  ought to know

  that.

  Conversation

  Whatchu doing?