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
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
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?