Booked

  Just checking to see if the warden called.

  Bro, you do know your dad’s famous?

  My dad blows.

  I Googled him. Did you know he’s got like nine thousand followers?

  You’re Googling my dad. That’s weird.

  I’m just saying, he’s cool. Remember that time he took us to Fun Park?

  Coby, we were, like, seven.

  But we had fun, though. That Flying Circus ride was INSANE!

  At least your dad doesn’t make you read the dictionary.

  It’s hard for him to make me do anything, when I only see him once a year.

  . . .

  . . .

  Your mom can cook, though. I love her food.

  My mom blows.

  Let’s call April, he says

  but when she answers

  you can’t think

  of anything to say,

  so you press

  END CALL.

  Man up, Nick.

  Tell her that her smile sparkles

  like a midnight star, or something.

  Or give her these.

  Then he reaches

  in his top drawer

  and hands you,

  get this,

  milk chocolate

  wrapped in shiny red and gold.

  What am I supposed to do

  with two bars of chocolate, Coby?

  Not just any old chocolate, bro.

  One hundred percent premium deluxe cocoa

  made in Ghana!

  So sweet, it’ll give you a cavity

  just thinking about it.

  Home Alone

  When you get home

  you see Dad’s note

  that he’s out

  with friends,

  which is odd

  ’cause you didn’t know

  he had any.

  But it’s cool,

  ’cause now

  you can

  fall asleep

  watching

  the Super Bowl

  on ESPN Classic

  without getting

  a lecture

  on the negative impact

  of aggression

  and violence

  in your other

  favorite sport.

  Why You No Longer Play Football

  Your first game

  of Pop Warner

  was electric.

  In the fourth quarter,

  a pass came

  across the middle,

  but before

  you could catch it

  and turn downfield

  to score

  the winning touchdown,

  a brick wall

  named Popeye Showalter

  popped up

  outta nowhere

  and shut the lights off

  for the longest three minutes

  of your mom’s life,

  and that is why

  you no longer play

  football.

  The next morning

  you throw the covers off

  lace your cleats

  grab your burgundy

  and blue headband

  that matches

  your Barcelona jersey

  (which you slept in)

  throw your clothes

  in the hamper

  like he asked you to do

  two days ago

  and tiptoe

  down the stairs

  to sneak

  out of the house

  before he wakes up

  and starts with

  all the homework

  questions.

  The Homework Questions

  Where are you going? he asks, sitting on the front stoop.

  Oh, hey, Dad, you say, startled. Uh, looks like the storm missed us again. Gonna be a swell weekend, you say, saluting the sun, wishing you had snuck out earlier and avoided the blah blah blah.

  So you’re the weatherman now, huh? He asks, lacing his running shoes.

  You going running, Dad?

  Don’t try to change the subject. Do you have a match today?

  This afternoon.

  So, where are you going?

  To meet Coby at the park.

  Did you finish your homework? The Rs?

  . . .

  Average person knows about twelve thousand words. Average president knows twice that, he says, sounding like Morgan Freeman.

  Even George Bush? you say with a smirk.

  You want to go to Dallas, right?

  I am going to Dallas. Y’all already said I could go.

  You do what you need to do, in order to do what you want to do. And I suspect that you still need to do some reading.

  But, Dad, I shouldn’t have to read on the weekend. I have a game this afternoon, a game tomorrow, plus there’s three matches Coby and I are watching later on TV, and I—

  Read for an hour, then you can go, he shouts, already a half block into his morning stride. And don’t forget to call your mother.

  ARGGH!

  Texts from Mom

  My dear Nicky, I’m

  assuming you’ve been eaten

  by a black mamba

  or pummeled to shreds

  by a stampede of mammoth

  shire sport horses

  since you haven’t returned a

  single text of mine. Love, Mom

  Texts to Mom

  HAY, Mom, why’d you BALE?

  Sorry I didn’t call you

  back. I’ve been feeling

  a little HORSE. I

  gotta TROT off. Soccer match

  today. GIDDY-UP.

  Jackpot

  Miss Quattlebaum

  finally pairs you

  with April

  for the waltz,

  which is sensational,

  and

  one-two-three . . .

  because

  the right hand

  must guide

  the small of

  Milady’s back

  two-two-three . . .

  across the glossy hardwood

  while the lucky left

  three-two-three . . .

  gets to hold

  her hand,

  twirl her out,

  four-two-three . . .

  spin her in,

  pull her close,

  nose to nose,

  for the longest,

  most awesome

  six seconds ever,

  during which

  you quietly wish

  that the German dancer

  who invented

  the waltz

  had included

  a kiss.

  Insomnia

  You make a sleep mask

  out of one of your dad’s ties.

  You try counting sheep,

  backwards.

  You even pick up the book about Pelé

  that The Mac made you take.

  Nothing works.

  So, you lie there,

  staring at the ceiling,

  remembering

  those six seconds

  with April

  and the past six days

  without

  Mom.

  Standing in the lunch line

  Coby says, Just ask your dad to take us to school. Dang!

  Trust me, you don’t want that. He’s got logorrhea,* you answer.

  That sounds disgusting.

  It is.

  Hey, Nick, there’s April. Go for it.

  Nah, I’m good.

  Dean and Don aren’t even around. Stop being scared.

  I’m not. I just don’t feel like it today.

  HEY, APRIL, he screams, then ducks.

  She turns and looks.

  At me.

  Big Trouble

  You walk up to April, scared straight.

  When’s your next game? she asks.

  You swallow

  your gum and

  string together a few

  c
oherent words.

  We, uh, play on, um,

  Saturday

  at the community center.

  If you had more

  than three dollars

  in your pocket

  maybe you could buy her

  a cookie or an ice cream sandwich.

  Instead, you stand there frozen.

  I’m coming with Charlene and my cousin.

  Score a goal for me, she says, then

  shoots a smile

  that sends you

  to Jupiter

  long enough

  for Don

  to “accidentally”

  knock the tray

  out of your hands

  and bring you back

  to earth.

  Why’d you do that, Don? April snaps

  as you pick up the food.

  Nobody’s talking to you, Ape.

  Shut up, she fires back,

  and gives him a shove

  that only makes him laugh more,

  and makes you

  WANNA. SHUT. HIM. UP.

  Stand Up

  Her name’s April, you say with a mean scowl.

  How’d you like it if

  I called you Daw instead of Don.

  Daw? he says, laughing loud enough

  to startle the few kids in the lunchroom who weren’t

  paying attention.

  That doesn’t even make sense.

  Daw is the origin of your name, you continue.

  It means simpleton, as in IDIOT.

  He stops laughing.

  As for your last name, Eggleston,

  well, that comes from the Latin word

  egesta, as in excrement, or dung.

  So maybe we should call you Dumb Dung.

  Now the whole lunchroom is cracking up,

  April too.

  Or better yet, how about Stupid Crap!

  A guy in the back of the line hollers,

  SHOTS FIRED!

  Even the blond-haired cafeteria lady joins in on the fun:

  Oh my, you just got cooked, son.

  The place goes crazy.

  It’s like you’re about to score

  and everyone’s chanting your name.

  Nick Hall! Nick Hall! NICK HALL!

  He charges, tries

  to tackle you.

  And then (What the—)

  you snap

  out of it and

  realize

  that none of this

  happened.

  ARGGH!

  Back to Life

  Say something, punk, one-eyed Dean says,

  standing in front of you.

  Wait, where’d he come from?

  Stay away from April, he continues, she’s mine.

  I’m not yours, and you can’t tell him to stay away from me,

  April shouts back.

  Let’s go, Nick, she adds.

  Dean knocks you into the fruit stand. You fall.

  So do all the bananas and apples.

  A hand reaches down to pick you up. Let’s bounce, Coby says.

  This has nothing to do with you, HALFrican,

  Don says to him, then daps one-eyed Dean, who adds,

  Yeah, you BLasian, rice-eating—

  But before he can finish

  Coby covers up one eye, and hollers,

  Yeah, well, I got my EYE on you, Dean,

  and the place breaks out

  in OOOOHs and AAAAAHs,

  when all of a sudden, Dean

  and Don both

  bum-rush Coby,

  who punches Don

  in the stomach

  before one-eyed Dean knocks him

  to the ground.

  You just,

  get this,

  stand there, still frozen

  with Bubble Yum stuck

  in your throat and

  King Chocolate

  squished

  in your pocket

  while your best friend

  tries to fight off

  two pissed-off dogs

  by himself.

  Do-Over

  You know

  how sometimes

  at night

  when you can’t sleep

  and you’re watching

  the stars go

  round and round

  on the ceiling fan,

  replaying

  that one lousy incident

  over and over

  in your mind,

  wishing

  you’d done something

  different

  and that if you had a do-over

  you definitely

  woulda swooped down

  on them jokers

  like a vulture

  instead of just circling above,

  standing idly by

  while your best friend

  gets a black eye

  and suspended

  from school?

  Consequences

  The twins get

  sent back

  to ABC

  for the rest

  of the school year.

  Coby gets

  two days’

  suspension.

  You get

  nothing.

  Free as a bird.

  The day after

  the fight,

  Principal Miller

  sends a letter

  to all parents

  saying racism

  will not be tolerated

  at Langston Hughes.

  Then we have

  a looonnnnng assembly

  and watch

  Martin Luther King’s

  “I Have a Dream” speech,

  which you know by heart

  from listening to it

  fifty-eleven times

  at home.

  Conversation

  I got an email from Principal Miller.

  Everyone got that.

  I also got a call.

  . . .

  Racism is serious, Nicholas.

  I know, Dad.

  Were these boys picking on you?

  It’s nothing. I can handle it.

  By fighting?

  I wasn’t fighting.

  Principal Miller says you were mixed up in all this. And Coby got suspended? That’s not good.

  They started it.

  Son, if they’re bullying you, I can schedule a meeting with their parents and the principal.

  Dad, no. You don’t understand. I’ll be fine. Can I get back to my homework now?

  The Last Time You Got into a Fight

  There’s only been

  one fight.

  It didn’t go well.

  Happened

  in fourth grade,

  during social studies.

  Some kid named Travis

  put his fingernail

  in your hair.

  You kicked

  his desk.

  He didn’t like that.

  Told you to meet him

  after school

  on the playground.

  You’d been taking

  tae kwon do lessons,

  so he was in for a beatdown.

  When you arrived,

  he wasn’t there, so you

  practiced:

  side punch,

  knife hand block,

  roundhouse kick.

  But when he showed up

  you were a little exhausted

  from all the freakin’ practice,

  so as he rushed you,

  instead of readying

  for the easy takedown,

  you called

  TIME OUT,

  and turned around

  for a breather

  when he jumped you

  from behind,

  and you never

  went back

  to tae kwon do.

  Last night you couldn’t watch TV

  because Dad canceled

  the cable,

  so you mi
ssed

  The Walking Dead.

  This morning he tells you

  that you’re not getting

  this week’s allowance

  ’cause of your mountain of unwashed clothes.

  And now Ms. Hardwick

  is reading another boring book

  in class, and April hasn’t smiled

  at you since the lunchroom brawl.

  April is

  Lovely

  Intelligent

  Magnetic

  Electric

  Red-hot

  Easygoing

  Nice

  Courageous

  Elegant

  Caught

  The intensity

  on your face

  is deafening, Nicholas Hall!

  What? Huh?

  If only you were concentrating as much

  on The Watsons Go to Birmingham

  as you were on that notebook of yours.

  Care to show us what you’ve been working on?

  It must be good, because your pencil’s been

  perpendicular for a good part of my class.

  Come up here. And bring