his right eye.
Then, a smile.
These letters are stirring. Genuine heart-melting stuff. You
found these in the bag?
Yep, there were five of them.
Why you holding out on me?
They’re at home.
I think this is a sign, yo.
For what?
For you to paint her from floor to ceiling.
. . . .
It’s time, he says, for you
to take
the training wheels off.
Time to take your feet
off the brakes
and put the pedal
to the metal.
You gotta paint
your masterpiece, Noah.
You gotta ride
into daybreak.
You gotta tell Sam.
Today.
I know, I say, and for once, I actually believe myself.
Part 2
I Guess I’ll Hang My Tears Out To Dry
Too Good to Be True
After almost a week
of solitude,
a week of revving up
the grit
and guts
to tell Sam
the deal
but wimping out,
guess who shows up
at my front door
with a Star Wars sleeping bag,
a bat,
and a suitcase
filled with
eccentric fixations
he says bring him luck—action figures,
black soap,
vitamins,
and essential oils
for my well-being.
IT’S TIME TO SWING, NOAH!
What are you doing here?
The weight should be on the balls of your feet and your
knees should be slightly bent.
Huh?
In order to have a balanced swing, you gots to have a
balanced stance. I’ve been working on my stance. The
weight should be on your back leg. If your feet are too close
together, you’ll have a difficult time keeping your head
level.
It’s pretty obvious you’re not level-headed.
Baby Bonds in the house! My swing’s gonna be lethal,
Noah.
Again, what are you doing here?
Still drama at my house. My future, soon-to-be fake dad is
back in town for the week, and he’s staying with us. Not a
good look.
You don’t like him at all, huh?
I don’t dislike him. But I need to keep him on edge. Make
sure he knows I’m just not gonna let him act any old way.
He’s gotta earn my compliance. And this right here is a
start, he says, dropping what looks like a gift card down
on the table in our foyer.
What’s that?
The price for my love.
A gift card?
A two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar gift card. All-you-can-drink
coffee. WOOHOO!
First a tattoo, now this.
You gotta pay to play, yo!
Cool, but, what does this have to do with you being here?
A bunch of aunts are at the house helping my mom
plan the wedding. It’s gonna be in our backyard. A lot of
familial shenanigans I want no parts of.
Is your brother home?
Not yet. Like next week, he’ll be here.
That’s so cool. I wonder what he’s like now.
He’s got a beard. He sent pics. But he’s still the same. Can
I bring him to the party?
What party?
I have plans for us, and they are going to enlighten you,
my man.
I’m not interested. And, you really can’t stay here.
If your grandma shows up, I’ll hide in the pantry, or the
closet, or the bathroom until she leaves.
I need my privacy.
Hey, remember those letters you showed me? I need more.
I’m galvanized.
Are you even listening?
First we celebrate, then we read the letters.
Celebrate?
We’re celebrating your enstoolment.
That sounds disgusting.
The Master and the Pupil
You’re the king of the castle now. Can’t you feel the tinge of
freedom in the air?
No, I cannot.
We’ve just been given the keys to a museum that houses
the rarest Egyptian artifacts.
Huh?
Responsibility, Authority, Freedom of mind and body. Yo,
LET’S DO THIS!
You just left Starbucks, didn’t you?
Yep.
You told your mom you’re crashing here?
Of course. I told her you need help watching the house.
You good with it, just for a few days, while we plan?
Plan what?
The first thing necessary in teaching is a master—the
second is a pupil capable of carrying on the tradition.
Let me guess, you’re the master?
It’s time to let love rule.
And how do we do that, master?
Today, Swing teaches the King how to throw the dopest
party imaginable.
That’s not going to happen.
It’s already happening, he says, laughing this sinister
laugh, then dropping his belongings down and walking
into the kitchen.
I can’t throw a party.
Well, I already texted Sam, and she’s already spreading the
word, so do you wanna rethink that?
. . . .
Hey, let’s get to those love letters. I can’t get them out of my
head.
Walt, turn around and go back home.
It’s time, Noah. IT. IS. TIME.
It is not time.
We kick off
our bachelor life
eating leftovers,
listening to a podcast
called Straight, No Chaser,
and watching
the police chief
on the news
promise
to investigate—
and possibly prosecute—
the flag litterer,
who, in addition
to defacing public property,
is now suspected
of breaking
and entering
a Walgreens.
I thought they were open twenty-four hours, Walt says.
Then, I let him
read
the rest of
Corinthian’s ancient
love letters.
6 november 1966
dear love,
yr father is not going to keep us apart. i miss u. a fish in water. a soul stranded. in the big sea. the world is changing and i know it will take years of undoing the white robes and old ways, but my love is stronger. let us not dwell on what’s not, rather on what is. me. you. us. together. one day.
forever,
corinthian c. Jones.
12 november 1966
dear love,
i painted u again. then i went to church with nothing but a penny for an offering. inside i prayed a thousand prayers sacredly and secretly holding the memory of yr hand in mine. yr voice echoed in the old organ that played our song . . . because all the mysterious and magnificent things that make music will be ours under notes of heaven above and earth below. our love provides god’s angels with trumpet and song. does it matter that the world wants to keep us apart? when i think of harlem, i think of u. when i walk to the street corner to buy apples, i walk with u. when i dance, i dance only with u. when i prime a canvas, it is always u taking shape. i look for your luminosity in the colors. u are the purples, yellows, and reds. every shadow is u sweeping
the room, sweeping the streets. when i dive into dreams, there’s u. everywhere is u. then us.
even though i’ve lived here many years prior to us, remembering those days seems pointless up until u entered my life, gave me everything, like the goddess of muses. heaven may be a place where artists go when they die, eternally playing songs, painting scenes, writing plays, or else napping, but i regret to inform the big man that i’m not leaving for eternity until u and i can be seen as an “us” on this same earth.
yours,
corinthian c. Jones.
17 november 1966
dear love,
they could not keep harriet tubman from freeing my people. they could not keep reverend king from that bridge in selma. and not one or ten or one hundred shotguns will keep me from harrisburg. from seeing you. we will figure out a solution. all the answers are in love. thank you for Jumping into my loving arms at the train station. but it was not smart to hold my hand on your front stoop. i know you are strong and unafraid. it is what chains me to you, but as my grandma liked ta say, a blind mule ain’t afraid of darkness. whoa annemarie. we will have our chance to sway and sing and kiss and dance. we will gallop with the butterflies and honey bees, you swinging in and out of my arms on the breeze. our samba will be rhythmic and alluring and deep.
for now, i love staying up all night and finding orion and pretending our love exists in zion. these are the only things that matter. copper sun and alabaster moon. they each need each other. we need each other. each day without u is as blue as the sky. let us not be apart too much longer. until that time, like the song says, i guess i will hang my tears out to dry.
remember me to love,
corinthian c. Jones.
p.s. my great-grandmother was cherokee, which means i’ve got an eighth of indian. that part of me will always protest this holiday, but i wish you a plump turkey and holiday greetings.
Ebony and Ivory
Where’s the rest?
That’s it.
What?! You can’t leave me like that.
I didn’t leave you like anything.
You sure there’s no more letters? You checked the bag?
Thoroughly?
That was it, Walt.
Well dang, yo.
I know. I wondered what happened to them too. I even
googled him.
Anything?
Only that some dude named Corinthian Jones, who
was born in 1966, was about to “turn up and sip a little
drink.” According to Twitter.
These letters are slightly mysterious. It’s like a TV show on
paper, and we’re binge watching.
It’s kinda wack, though, to be eavesdropping on their
love. Maybe this isn’t cool.
What’s not cool is her pops pulling a shotgun out and
trying to keep them apart.
True, but why?
Seriously, Noah.
What? The dad could be keeping them apart for any
reason.
He was from Harlem in 1966. And she was in Harrisburg,
PA, which is not exactly Harlem. Paul McCartney and
Stevie Wonder, yo.
Huh?
Ebony and Ivory. There were those who didn’t want black
people dating white people back in the day.
I thought Corinthian was Cherokee.
And this is why you keep getting Cs and low scores on your
PSATs. You need to read. Really read the letter and think
about the time period and the context and the meaning.
You’re doing the most. Now you sound like Ms. Miller,
and that’s just not cool. I did notice Corinthian had some
good lines though.
Goddess of muses.
That’s the one! That’s exactly how I feel about Sam.
Then use these letters as inspiration. Be like Corinthian
and go for what you want, no matter the cost.
. . . .
Or do nothing, I really don’t care. I’m hungry. What’re you
cooking for dinner?
I’m not cooking for you.
Let’s get pizza and beer.
We don’t drink beer.
Then just order pizza. I gotta go work on my stance.
Texts with Granny
9:43 pm
Hey, Granny.
Just checking in.
9:49 pm
Granny, it’s Noah.
Things are good over here.
You okay?
9:49 pm
YOU DON’T NEED TO
CHECK IN SO MUCH.
9:49 pm
Huh?
9:52 pm
ARE YOU OKAY? IS THE
HOUSE OKAY? YOU
HAVE ENOUGH FOOD?
9:52 pm
Yes, Granny, but why
are you screaming?
Turn your caps off.
9:54 pm
I DON’T KNOW HOW
TO Do oh wait did that
work noah????????????
9:54 pm
Yes.
9:57 pm
noah, i don’t want to
stay over there
any more than you
want me to stay
9:58 pm
over there, so how’s
about you don’t
burn down the house,
you don’t have any
9:59 pm
wild parties, and
you come see me
weekly to check in
’cause i’m a little
10:00 pm
busy with senior dance
and book club
and netflix.
have you seen
10:01 pm
luke cage? too violent
for me, but the crown
me and the girls
10:02 pm
are going to the casino
for the weekend.
if you won’t tell,
i won’t tell. DEAL?
10:02 pm
So you mean . . .
10:04 pm
I WAS DRIVING
A SCHOOL BUS
AT YOUR AGE.
YOU’RE OLD ENOUGH
TO START TAKING CARE
OF YOURSELF.
10:05 pm
Okay. Well, I’ll call
you every day to
check in.
10:07 pm
NOT NECESSARY. I’M
IN AND OUT
THESE DAYS, NOAH,
WITH MEETINGS
10:09 pm
AND DANCE, YOU SEE?
JUST CALL ME
if you get thrown in jail.
10:09 pm
Okay. Well, I love you.
10:12 pm
Granny?
10:12 pm
Janice Wallace has left the conversation.
Inspiration
In the still of the night
I take one of
Corinthian’s letters,
retype
his story
of love
as if it’s my own.
I begin
with his words,
trace a heart,
make them mine,
borrow
his love story,
wonder if it
can repeat itself,
wonder if Sam
can love me
like Annemarie
loved him.
Friday Morning
Howdy, sunshine.
How’s the stance?
Didn’t work on it as much as I should have. Got distracted
with some very important research.
What class?
Divya 101.
Seriously?
Those letters, yo. They got all up in my feelings. The
unrequited love. The romance. I think I’m in love.
With the letters?
Keep
up, Noah. With Divya. I want to know everything
about her.
What’d you find out?
She’s an older woman.
How old is she?
Nineteen, according to my research.
I think you’re out of your league.
Yo, why does the kitchen smell like Sharpie? he says,
pouring chocolate milk into a bowl of cereal and
blueberries. And what’s with the mess in here? It looks like
Times Square on New Year’s Eve. How long you been up?
Not long. Rereading the letters, drawing a little, trying to
get inspired to take the training wheels off.
Well, good for you, he says, slurping his concoction next
to me at the counter. Let me see.
It’s just scribbles and stuff.
Let me see.
Nah. Don’t want to share.
Don’t want to share. What? Is it another sappy, crappy
love song?
Nope.
Then hand it over, he says, grabbing one of the pages I’ve
been working on for hours, before I can pick them all up
off the counter. Let’s see what we have here.