Suite for Jazz Orchestra No. 2: Scherzo
Walt brings Mo
a plate of chicken
and salad.
He slowly moves
the food around
his plate.
He keeps his headphones
plugged in his ears,
but I can tell
he hears everything,
all the small talk
and the pretend talk,
so we don’t call attention
to how weird things
are getting right now.
He only responds
with a nod
here and there.
And Walt is in total denial
that there’s anything wrong
with his hero,
his brother.
He looks great, doesn’t he, y’all? Walt says.
Suite for Jazz Orchestra No. 2: Lullaby
It’s like he’s asleep.
He looks sunken,
smells of BO,
and earth,
and night
coming fast.
Every few seconds
he jerks a little,
like his body
and mind
are on autopilot.
My big brother’s home, Walt says, smiling at him. Mo,
this is Divya, my friend, and you remember Noah, and
Uncle—
Moses. Not Jackie. Moses. Not Jackie. Moses. Not Jackie.
Moses. Not Jackie. Moses. Not Jackie.
And Mo goes on and on like this
for minutes, until
he puts
another piece of chicken
in his mouth.
But, it’s still a little awkward,
as the classical music
on Pandora
swirls
around our heads
like we’re all in
a madhouse.
He’s talking about Moses Fleetwood Walker, Walt
says to us. That’s who he was named after. Everybody
thinks Jackie Robinson was the first African American
to play Major League baseball, but it was actually
Moses Fleetwood Walker. He played for the Toledo Blue
Stockings. Died of pneumonia.
BAM!
Mo screams out—
and it sounds
like a blast
from a mortar.
Suite for Jazz Orchestra No. 2: Serenade
BAM! BAM! BAM! I need my platoon, he continues.
Your platoon? Walt says, looking a little scared for the first
time.
My cocoon. My sleeping bag. My pillow. And the ground.
That’s all anyone needs. When you’ve been sleeping in the
middle of a combat zone, that’ll do.
We all shake our heads
in agreement,
like he’s making
more sense than
we’ve ever heard,
but he’s not,
and everyone
but Walt
is royally freaked.
Yeah, man. That’s all you need, I say, realizing I probably
sound ignorant, but not knowing what else to say.
I should probably roll, he says, standing and walking
toward the door.
I’ll go with you, Walt says, jumping up. Let me just grab
my stuff.
Want me to come with you? Divya asks.
But by the time
they grab
their belongings,
Mo’s gone,
disappeared, like he
was never here.
Text to Sam
12:43 am
Did you make it home?
Please let me know
you got home okay.
Walt’s brother was here.
1:31 am
I reread
Corinthian’s letters
to remind myself
there’s no turning back
when love comes calling.
The past cannot be changed.
The future is in my hands
to be molded and shaped.
And love is a many-splendored thing.
I’m thinking
when
a loud knock
to my bedroom door
jolts me
back to now.
What does Walt want this time?
The Right Time
What are you doing here?
I needed to see you.
I’m glad you came back.
You sent my heart and my world spinning.
I’m sorry about everything.
I can’t believe it’s you. I just can’t.
Well, that makes me feel good.
No, I mean, how could I have not known? Why didn’t
you ever tell me, Noah?
I never found the right time.
In eight years?
One day, you’re in third grade, holding hands on a
field trip.
I remember that.
And before you know it, the girl you love is your best
friend.
You love me?
. . . .
What am I supposed to do with that, Noah?
We lie across the bed
holding hands
in silence,
staring at stars
painted on the ceiling,
and before it gets
more awkward,
I play some music.
Quiet Nights of Quiet Stars
Can we play something else?
Why? It’s jazz. Just listen—it’s really good.
It’s a little depressing.
Give it a try. This album is great. It’s Brazilian.
Can you play something American?
How about I turn it down some?
Maybe turn it off.
It’s not depressing, it’s yearning. It’s pure pleasure. It’s
magic, I say.
Yearning for what, a bullet to the head?
What do you want to hear?
Beyoncé.
. . . .
I change the music
and the subject.
How was Cruz?
I don’t wanna talk about it. It’s difficult. It’s complex.
What went down tonight is just a lot, Noah, she says,
placing
her hand
in mine,
and suddenly
the music
doesn’t matter.
Actually, nothing matters.
You okay with all this?
It’s been eight years, so it’s gonna take some getting used
to, Noah.
I know.
I just feel like I was thrown from a roller coaster, but I
landed on a cloud. You don’t think you’ll land softly after
a night like this. You don’t think your best friend will end
up being the person who has loved you all these years. And
then you find yourself lying in his bed holding his hand
and having heart flutters.
Heart flutters?
It’s confusing, I’m going to be honest, but I’m just blown
away by your art, by your words, by how you feel. It makes
me feel so special, so cared about, and all I can think
about is how maybe this . . . us . . . deserves a chance.
2:06 am
She texts her mom
that she’s okay
and crashing
at my house,
which theoretically
is not a big deal
since she’s done it
many times over the years,
but never
like this,
so close
I can feel
her breathe.
Moon River
Her eyes sparkle
with the sacred moonlight
glowing through
the window.
She cuddles.
You’re warm, she says.
My entire body is on fire,
I want to say.
It is kinda hot in here, I answer.
I open the window,
to the ghostly rustling
of trees,
like they know
the secret of how
this will all
play out.
She cuddles closer.
How was Mo?
Not good. Not good at all.
Like what?
He was spaced out, like he was here, but he was
somewhere else. And random and jerky.
You think he’s on drugs?
Maybe. Also, the war. PTSD.
What does Walt say?
Nothing—it was like he didn’t see it at all.
It’s his brother. Sometimes, we don’t want to see the not-so-
good things happening to our loved ones.
True.
I need to get something off my chest.
Okay. What is it?
There’s something I never told you.
What is it? My heart pounds waiting for the reveal, as
if this could be something I really, really don’t want to
know. Or something I do.
I tried something. Just once.
Tried what?
Weed.
That’s random. Why are you telling me now?
I don’t know. We were talking about Mo, and we’re here,
and I’m feeling kinda vulnerable, and I just wanted to.
. . . .
What?
Nothing.
. . . .
What are you thinking about now?
I like when it snows in April, like it did this year. The way
the flowers peek out from under the snow blanket.
O-kay.
And I like taking a long nap when it rains.
I knew that.
You did not.
I’ve seen you nap dozens of times when it rains, and we’re
supposed to be studying.
That was, like, fifth grade.
I remember.
But did you know I liked it?
I did . . . because you always look so peaceful and happy
sleeping.
You study me while I’m sleeping?
Ummm . . . yeah, I guess I do.
Creepy. Creepy. She uses her fingernails to crawl her
fingers through my hair. Just creepy. Her dancing fingers
and smile send electric bolts of thrill throughout my
body.
I know a lot about you, Samantha.
Turns out I know very little about you, Mr. Picasso. I
should have known when you started lecturing Walt and
me on art.
Yeah, I just knew you were gonna figure me out then.
You’re a real sneaky devil, Noah Wallace.
You’re a sneaky devil.
And a brilliant artist too. They were all so beautiful, minus
the LICK, of course.
You’re beautiful, I say.
Please don’t call me that.
Sorry. Why?
What am I? How am I beautiful? Calling me beautiful
feels like a line.
Haven’t you read all my letters? Haven’t you seen what
you do to me? How foolish you make me look?
She laughs,
squeezes me tight.
You’re you and that’s why you’re beautiful. There’s no one
in the world like you, Sam.
. . . .
Conversation
What’s going on in there? Walt says, banging on the door.
Go away, we’re making out, Sam screams.
WOOHOO! Walt screams. I LOVE IT! ALL ABOARD
NOAH’S ARK. ROW, ROW, ROW YOUR BOAT!
Walt, nothing’s happening, I say, opening the door,
revealing Sam under the covers in
my bed, and my sleeping bag next to it.
Dude, the party was epic. Until it wasn’t. The party was
outta control. Y’all good?
We’re great, Sam says. Now, can you let us get back to our
tongue fight?
Good night, Walt, I say.
Good night? Dude, it’s six am.
Huh?
If you open your curtains, you’d see that.
He shuts the door, and
we start laughing
at the wonder
and bliss
of having talked
and held hands
’til the break
of dawn.
On Monday
when we go
to get coffee,
I feel like
I own the world.
I order
for all of us
like I’m ordering
outlaws
off my ranch,
like I’m the good guy
winning the girl
and the whole
hazelnut town.
When I get
to the car,
I hand them
their coffees
and grab her hand
to make sure
I still can.
But only for a second,
’cause I can’t drive
and drink
and hold
my future
at the same time.
When I get to school
it seems like there’s
someone smiling
or applauding
everywhere I turn.
At my locker,
in English class,
at the library
when I return
my overdue book.
During physics, Mr. Albert,
our favorite teacher, says
there’s an equation to the law
of attraction and love.
And he looks at me and smiles
as he draws it up on the board.
Even in ASL,
everybody’s signing Bravo
and lover boy.
Who’s da man? Walt asks himself.
Indubitably, you da man! he shouts.
I’ve Got You Under My Skin
I wait for Sam
after school,
and she comes out
with Walt,
and I hug her
like she’s the North Star
planted firmly
in my astrology
in my astronomy
in my prayers
in my tomorrow
in my forever
in this one great, precious life.
Prelude to a Kiss
You two lovebirds should get a room, Walt says.
Wanna come back to my house? We can order pizza and
do homework, I say to Sam.
As long as we don’t have to listen to any more of that
wretched music?
Noah, I don’t know, but you may have to nix this love
thing if she’s hating on jazz, Walt says to me, shaking his
head. We may be too sophisticated for her.
You calling me unsophisticated, Walt?
If the shoe fits . . .
C’mon, Noah, let’s go back to your place, and I can show
you how a sophisticated lady acts.
I’m down for that, I say, grabbing her hand.
Duke Ellington, May 24, 1974. Lung cancer and
pneumonia. He said, “Music is how I live, why I live, and
how I will be remembered,” then BAM!
Thanks for the history lesson. We’ll see ya, Swing.
Wait, I thought we were hitting the batting cages, Noah.
I’m gonna pass on that.
You’re gonna play me like that, dude?
Are you even getting better,
Walt? Sam says, laughing.
I’m as good as your man is at love letters.
Then you must be exceptional, she says, kissing me on the
cheek.
Have fun, lovebirds, he says, walking away, chuckling.
Save me some dinner.
The week with Sam
is like a dream deferred
that’s finally arrived.
I carry her backpack,
take her home
from school,
hold her hand
’til the streetlights
go out,
and sometimes after.
We make sugar cookies,
study for our big trig exam,
and listen to
Beyoncé so much
that I find myself
drinking lemonade,
crazy in love every day.
All I can think about is her.
All I want to do is slow dance
with her heart
in the arms
of mine.
We cuddle,
watch videos
of cats dancing,
and Junior Wilson’s leap,
which has over one million views.
I take new routes
to my classes to
avoid Cruz,
but he’s been missing
most of the week,
and I pray he’s
dropped out.