sculptures.
. . . .
Venus de Milo, I say.
SCORE for Noah, Divya says, holding my hands up.
Ladies and gents, we have a new grand champion.
Not fair. I thought this was jazz trivia, not art.
It’s all related, Mr. Swing.
It’s actually a misnomer. The sculpture should have been
called—
Aphrodite of Milos, Divya interrupts.
Because Venus is the Roman goddess of love, and
Aphrodite is the Greek goddess, I finish.
Wow, Noah, you know your art.
I dabble. Plus, she’s beautiful and confident and assured
and full of passion.
So, you’ve been to the Louvre?
No.
Then how’d you see her?
In a book.
You gotta see it in person. It’s breathtaking.
Have you been to the Louvre?
When I was nine, we went to Paris. I remember like it was
yesterday. The Mona Lisa is also there. Art can really
inspire you to embrace the preciousness of life.
Agree completely.
Can we get back to jazz, please, Walt says, looking a little
irritated.
Here, she says, handing him the Miles Davis album, this
is for you, my treat. It’s one of my faves. Could be your
autobiography too, Mr. Swing, she says, winking at him.
An hour later
we leave
with her phone number
written
on the sweaty palm
of his left hand,
and three jazz albums,
including
the one he keeps
staring at,
the one
she gave him:
Birth of the Cool.
The Only Thing That Can Shut Walt Up
We don’t talk about
the flags
we see in yards
and on windshields
of parked cars.
We don’t talk about
the three-legged dog
that runs
into the street,
almost getting hit.
We don’t talk about
the English paper
due tomorrow
at 9:00 in the morning.
We don’t talk about
dead celebs
or any of Walt’s obsessions.
We don’t even talk about
his brother’s return, or
his mom’s impending wedding.
In fact, we don’t talk
about anything at all,
because Walt is out of his mind
over a goddess
who is way smarter
and way older
than he is.
Out of His Mind
DOPAMINE!
Huh?
Dopamine.
What are you talking about, Walt?
I’m gonna marry her.
Dude, you just met her.
It only takes between ninety seconds and four minutes
to decide if you’re into someone. We call it love, but it’s
really just the chemical dopamine. It stimulates desire and
reward by triggering an intense rush of pleasure. It has
the same effect on the brain as taking cocaine. I’m high on
Divya Konar, Noah!
You’re high on something.
She’s coming to the party. Which means we’ve got work to
do. Need to make it the best party ever. For both of us!
So, we’re definitely gonna stick with the whole jazz-
music-at-a-house party?
Yeah, I’m gonna ask my Uncle Stanley Stanley to bring his
trio.
He’s got two first names.
Yep, but don’t mention it—he’s real sensitive about his
names.
I don’t know about this.
Go bold or go home.
Go home.
So, you’re down with it?
Do I have a choice?
When we get home
I FaceTime
Mom
and Dad
while Walt climbs to
the attic
looking for
a turntable
I don’t even think
we have.
I FOUND IT, he screams from the attic, and
for the next three hours,
we listen
to the same record
over and over.
And over.
134 minutes
of another street,
another town,
a different country,
a newfound planet.
A place where
jazz is king,
where the mind is all lit,
and what Swing calls
a transcendence of sorts.
And I do kinda feel it,
like maybe the rhythm
gets me.
So, I draw.
You hear cool, Noah?
I hear way past cool, Walt.
I hear watermelon
on a summer night.
I hear
the sound
of a million stars
singing
of pristine love.
I hear a trumpet
serenading
lovers.
Corinthian and
Annemarie dancing
to an endless groove.
You hear all that, Noah?
Yeah, and I hear her.
Who?
Sam.
Yeah?
Yeah,
and I want to dive into
her smile, swim
from one corner
of her mouth
to the other.
Really?
Really.
. . . .
What do you think? I ask, showing him my drawing.
Dope.
I’m doing it, I say, feeling confident.
Doing what?
I’m gonna give it to her.
Part 3
Second Balcony Jump
Guess Who?
Sam comes up to me
at my locker.
I got another one, she says,
grinning with wonder
like it’s Christmas morning.
She tells me
who she thinks
her anonymous
secret admirer
is, but
none of her guesses
are me,
which is a relief
and a disappointment.
Conversation
It’s gorgeous. And thoughtful. And, whoever is doing this is
smart and sexy.
That eliminates ninety percent of the guys in this school.
Maybe it’s a girl.
Maybe.
Whoever it is has me all up in my feelings.
Yeah?
Noah, I feel like a flower blossoming, and these letters are
my sunshine.
. . . .
You want to see it?
Sure, I say, smiling confidently, as if I didn’t draw it last
night.
Close, But No Cigar
I gave it to her.
And?
And she loved it.
So, the cat’s out of the bag?
Not exactly.
That sounds suspicious, bro.
Let’s say the cat’s peeking.
. . . .
I gave it to her, but haven’t told her it’s me yet. One step
at a time.
I know just what you need.
I hope it’s not Dairy Queen.
Ha!
Primer Three
Listen to this, Noah, he says, streaming
more jazz
from his phone.
Jazz is
an u
npredictable friend,
full of love and rage,
whimsy and woe.
It’s fire and ice.
It’s all that, huh? I say, with a little sarcasm.
Feel it, Noah.
Live inside the rhythm.
To win over Sam’s heart,
you gotta become
fire and ice,
like jazz!
Huh?
Tell me what you hear!
I hear
giant steps
across pavement,
running for life
in New York City
or Chicago,
or some big city,
bolting
down a street,
trying to get away
from evil.
Escaping
down an alleyway
or a crowded street,
into a hotel lobby,
where a beautiful girl
walks in
with all the confidence
in the world.
Good! Okay, what else, Noah?
The girl grabs my hand,
we both run
in the opposite direction
from where I came.
We keep running
until we’re almost out of breath,
hoping we’re safe, free.
Then, we fall, exhausted,
our hearts pounding
to the point of explosion,
but evil returns
and I’m forced
to fight,
to try
and save her.
Yo, this is crazy stuff, Swing!
I got a headache.
But was it a good run.
I guess. So was I close? What’s the tune about?
No idea—it’s a Charles Mingus tune called “All the
Things You Could Be by Now If Sigmund Freud’s Wife
was Your Mother.”
Seriously, Sigmund Freud, the shrink? Bananas! Hey,
how’d he die?
Mingus died of ALS, on a Friday. Seems like a lot of jazz
musicians die on Fridays.
No, Freud. How’d he die?
Morphine overdose.
He killed himself?
Basically, yeah. But he had a doctor friend actually
administer it.
That’s crazy. Pun intended.
It was a Saturday. September 23, 1939. Same day the
Dodgers beat the Phillies 22–4. I bet that was a good
game. Hey, I’m sure there’s a game on. Let’s get some
popcorn and study the plays.
I’m studying my eyelids, yo. Good night.
Starbucks Fix No. 1,299
I drop Walt off
and park the car
in the lot
across the street.
Seems the whole student body
is in here.
Everybody needs
their midterm fix.
When I get inside,
Walt’s talking to—Wait, why is he
talking to Cruz?
Why are they laughing?
What are they laughing about?
I try to pretend like
I don’t see them,
but Walt waves me over
before I can look
away.
Never Mix the Wrong Drinks and the Wrong Company
We’re waiting for Walt’s
ridiculous chai latte
sprinkled
with mocha caramel
and elderberry syrup
when Cruz says,
I need your advice, Noah,
then chugs
an energy drink
like a muscle-bound
walking cliché.
Awkward Conversation with Cruz
You need my advice?
Well, both of you. Whoever, he says, motioning his fingers
to pull us in closer.
What do you need? Walt asks.
How do I close the deal with Sam—really close the deal?
Close what deal? I ask with a lump in my throat, because
I think I know what he means.
You know what I mean. It’s home run time. Should I buy
her flowers, bring her chocolate, sing her a song, make her
a playlist, play with her hair?
Filet-O-Fish and fries, she’ll love that, I say, knowing
she’ll hate it, because she hasn’t eaten McDonald’s since
fourth grade, when she found a fly in her fries.
Really, Cruz says. You think so?
No rhyme or reason.
True. Well, it’s going down tonight.
Walt and I stand there
for what seems like
an awkward forever,
staring silently
into the haze
of a caffeine fog
with Cruz,
until we’re saved
by the barista,
who screams
out—
BLACK LIVES MATTER!
Last time I was here, I told them my name was Barry Bonds,
Walt says, smiling and collecting his coffee mashup.
Time before that it was Voldemort or Dump Trump, I can’t
remember. Just depends on how I feel that day.
So, you’re feeling like Colin Kaepernick?
Noah, the struggle is real out here in these mean streets.
Walt, you live in a gated community.
We are all part of America. United in our values, in
our belief that basic respect of life and humanity is a
prerequisite for true democracy.
You’re running for the office of president now?
I’m running for the office of black boys are being killed and
nobody seems to care.
. . . .
Anyway, enough of that, he says once Cruz is out of
earshot. You better watch out.
For what?
Noah, Cruz is playing hardball.
. . . .
The window to your happiness is closing.
I’m working on another love note, I say, handing him my
latest.
Squirrels and Lovers
What in the world is this?
What are you talkin’ about?
I don’t remember seeing anything about squirrels in
Corinthian’s letters.
It’s a mashup. I mean, it was a magazine article I found.
I’m doing what Floyd said to do. Painting her my own
world. Crashing through the door of my own destiny.
I hear ya, but you’re gonna chase her like a squirrel
through Harlem? C’mon, yo!
Well, it sounded romantic.
You just half-colored the page black and weren’t
intentional with design or even the words.
That’s why it’s called a draft. I’m still working on it.
This is trash.
Why don’t you say how you really feel?
It’s a disgrace to Corinthian.
You know how difficult these pieces are? Art takes time.
You can’t give her this.
I said I’m worki—
You can’t give her any iteration of this. I say start over.
You wanna help?
You’re the artist.
C’mon, man.
Can’t! Got a date.
Seriously?
Well, it’s a phone date. Divya and I are scheduled to talk
in exactly, he says, ten minutes, and I need to practice.
Practice?
Because I suck at phone conversations. If I can’t see the
person, I find it horribly unsettling to actually say stuff to
them. And I end up talking too loud.
It’s who you are, Swing. Be you. That�
�s what you would
tell me.
Disgusting
I stay up
’til three am
composing
and cutting
and pasting,
and the next morning
when I come downstairs,
Walt has cooked breakfast,
which is great
’cause I’m starving,
and I love
scrambled eggs,
grits, and
turkey sausage,
but it’s also not so great
’cause now
I gotta watch him
mix it all together
in a bowl and
eat it.
Conversation with Walt
Breakfast smells good.
You look terrible, man. Did you stay up all night reworking
that horrid piece of art?
Yeah, but I couldn’t figure it out. That’s art sometimes.
That’s life sometimes.
Can you turn the music down a tad? I’m still waking up.
The wave is coming, Noah!
Huh?
That’s the song playing—“Wave”! Amazing, isn’t it?
Hmmm. I wouldn’t call it amazing, but it’s decent.
Decent? Yo, this is quintessential bossa nova.
. . . .
It’s Brazilian jazz.
Oh. It kinda sounds like I’m on an elevator going up to