. . . .
That’s fine, don’t say anything, but I bet it worked. She
liked it, didn’t she? Trust your indelible words.
. . . .
The train is moving, yo. Time to get on board. Say
something, Noah.
. . . .
SHUT THE FREAK UP
is what I want
to yell
at Walt
as he blathers on
about why
he had to do it
on my behalf.
Instead,
I just ignore him.
Walk away.
Get in my car,
turn up the music
on my almost-dead, crackling radio,
and burn rubber,
leaving him
right there
on the school curb.
Stuck
He’s right;
the train is rolling,
but I’m not on it.
I’m standing
in the middle
of the track.
Stuck.
My Heart
I wish she’d call.
I want to know
what she’s thinking.
I want to know
how she’s feeling,
but I’m afraid to dial—
to dial her number,
afraid to text—
afraid that anything
will open up the universe
of this blackout fiasco—
this black hole
of my existence.
What if I get
sucked into
the end
of everything,
and all that’s left
are a couple
circled words?
Finally
8:14 pm
Noah, maybe it’s Cruz.
8:16 pm
Noah, you there?
8:16 pm
Yup.
8:16 pm
Would be so sweet,
if it’s him.
8:19 pm
It’s not him.
8:19 pm
How do you know?
8:19 pm
He’s not exactly Rimbaud.
8:20 pm
What does that mean?
8:20 pm
Has he ever read a book,
let alone written
something besides
8:20 pm
a baseball scorecard?
8:21 pm
RUDE!
8:21 pm
I’m just saying.
8:21 pm
HATER!!!
8:21 pm
. . . .
8:22 pm
. . . .
8:22 pm
I’m sorry, Sam.
I mean, I guess it could be
Cruz.
8:22 pm
I’ll let you know
if I get another one,
okay?
8:24 pm
You want another one?
When Walt strolls
into my house
with a dozen red velvet cupcakes,
interrupting
my train of thought
599 times
to tell me
he’s sorry
I wish I’d never
given him
a key.
Apology
I guess I shoulda asked you,
convinced you
it was a genius plan.
But you needed the push, bro.
You weren’t gonna
help yourself,
honor your talents.
I’m sorry I didn’t
consult with you first.
But it was like waiting
for my little cousin Leroy
to learn to walk
and get off the bottle.
He liked being carried around.
It felt safe.
And I need you
to stop crawling,
stop playing it safe,
and start walking . . .
no, running toward
all the opportunities.
Shut up.
You have to grow, bro.
Take a chance.
If I didn’t act fast
for you,
you’d still be
secretly scribbling hearts
with Sam’s name on it
for the next eighty years.
I guess I was wrong,
and for that
I’m immensely sorry.
Maybe you just
need to fail
without even trying.
It’s your life,
and you gotta do
what you gotta do,
learn the way you
need to learn,
live the way
you wanna live.
PLEASE, SHUT UP!
Noise
But it’s difficult, man.
I love you like a brother,
and I want to see you
dare to enter
the cave of uncertainty,
find your way out
to the other side,
where the light
of reward awaits.
You feel me?
You understand me?
You forgive me?
Dude, where ya going?
I slam my door
loud enough
for the house to rattle,
and for Walt to get
the point.
Still, I wish
I’d taken
the cupcakes.
The Price of Betrayal
It’s been a weekend
of dreary weather
inside
and out,
of Walt walking around
like a ghost.
I haven’t spoken
one word to him,
not one.
Not even to tell him
to knock it off
when he slurps
his SpaghettiOs
or cereal loudly
in the next room.
I lock myself inside
my four walls,
even though I know
it’s killing him
that I’m not acknowledging
he’s here.
I’m not ready to accept
his pathetic apology.
Even if most
of what he says
makes sense,
it doesn’t take away
from the fact
he stole
my art like a thief,
gave it to Sam,
risking my humiliation.
She wasn’t supposed
to see
my drawings.
It’s not something
I ever planned to share.
It’s a piece of me
that should
stay hidden
inside the History
of the Unseen.
If this ruins my chances
with Sam,
I don’t know how
or if
I’ll ever
forgive him.
Starbucks
Where’s Swing?
I don’t know, Sam.
Uh, isn’t he staying at your place?
My guess is he’s on his way.
Where?
Here.
Why didn’t he ride with you?
Because.
I don’t understand.
Look, I’m not in charge of Walt’s whereabouts.
Trouble in paradise. You guys have a tiff?
What happened?
Nothing I want to talk about, actually.
. . . .
. . . .
Fine, I’ll change the subject. Are you guys really having a
party?
I don’t know—I’m not really feeling it.
It
’s not the worst idea. I can ask Cruz to get his older
brother to bring some beer.
I don’t drink beer.
Not for us, for everybody else, so your party’s not lame.
. . . .
Geesh, who spit in your cereal? Coffee’s taking forever this
morning.
. . . .
By the way, in case you were worried, there’s no need.
I’m safe.
Huh?
The heart-shaped letter thingy from X, my anonymous
suitor. I didn’t get another one.
Well, at least no one’s stalking you. That’s good.
I guess.
What do you mean?
I was kinda hoping I did have a secret admirer.
Oh.
Oh well. At least I’ve got Cruz. You coming to his game
with me?
I’m having dinner with my granny, I lie, knowing
I don’t want
to go and watch
Sam’s boyfriend
knock another ball
out the park.
On Tuesday
I’m eating onion rings
and leftover
mac and cheese
when the doorbell buzzes
like five times in a row.
I walk over
to the front door,
look through
the tiny peephole,
but don’t see anyone
standing on the porch.
I swing the door open,
thinking I’m about to
bust one of the
neighborhood kids
ding-dong ditching me,
and all I see
is the biggest bag
of party ice
on my front steps.
A bag of ice?
I’m confused
and a little worried
what this prank
might mean,
or if it’s an ominous
message from Cruz.
Then I look out
into the yard
and see Walt
practically standing
in the azaleas,
with his Hug Life arms
holding
an enormous sign
above his head
that says:
LET’S BREAK THE ICE.
I can’t help but laugh
at Walt’s ridiculousness,
at how crazy he looks,
at how clever he is,
and at the fact
that even though
he annoys
the heck out of me
and drives me insane,
he is my very best friend.
I shake my head,
walk away,
go back inside,
leaving the front door
wide open
for Walt.
Apology Accepted
So, we good?
. . . .
You want to talk about it?
Nope.
If your brother pisses you off, tell him about it. If he listens
to you, he is your brother for life.
Real profound.
It is. Matthew said it.
Who’s Matthew?
The Bible Matthew, yo!
I doubt the Bible says pissed off, Walt.
I was paraphrasing. Just trying to elucidate the power of
communication between brothers.
. . . .
Did she like your heart?
She liked the heart.
Did she love the heart?
. . . .
SHE. LOVED. THE. HEART, DIDN’T SHE?! I KNEW
IT. My plan worked.
Don’t piss me off again.
You should do another one, if she liked it that much.
. . . .
Seriously, you could woo her like Steve Martin.
What are you talking about?
Roxanne!
Who’s Roxanne?
Daryl Hannah played Roxanne in a movie with Steve
Martin, who wrote her love letters for a friend of his. It’s
like Cyrano.
Oh!
Cyrano de Bergerac.
Yeah, I know. How’d he die?
Nobody’s really sure, but he was either injured by a
wooden beam, a botched assassination attempt, or he went
insane and stabbed himself, and—
BAM! Yeah, I get it.
Are we cool, bro?
Yeah.
Come on, let’s hug it out. HUG life, Noah.
Do we have to?
Yo, I’m hungry.
Me too.
Let’s go grab a burrito.
Sure, but promise me you won’t crumble up nacho chips
and put them inside.
I cannot make that promise.
. . . .
On the way, I need to make a stop.
Where?
The Baddest Girl on Earth
She has long, jet-black hair,
eyes the color of dark amber
framed in hot-nerd, black-rimmed glasses.
There’s something enchanting about her.
I want to watch the rhythm
in her walk,
hear the lilt in
her raspy voice,
look into her eyes
and see her story
from beginning to now.
I’ve gotta see her again, Noah.
So, we go back
to the thrift store
’cause Walt
wants to see the girl
who rocks his world,
and he needs me
to be
his wingman
in case
I get nervous
and can’t actually speak.
In case? Ha!
Conversation
You’re back. Did your mom like the bag?
She loved it, I say, wondering if I should tell her about
the letters we found.
Hey, Swing, she says to Walt, who’s indeed unable to get
words out of his mouth, so he waves. What can I help you
two with this time?
I’m having a party.
Wicked!
And I guess I need to buy some good music for that party.
You ever heard of streaming?
I’m old-fashioned, I lie. Got records?
Plenty. What kind of music?
I find that the tonality of jazz on vinyl really inhabits you,
Walt says, finally acting as if he’s alive.
Oh really, she says.
Take, for instance, Miles Davis, he continues, his
confidence building, his awkwardness fading. Kind of
Blue is a classic example.
Actually, it’s not, Divya counters.
Huh? Walt says, frowning.
Abandoning the traditional major and minor key
relationships of tonality, Miles based the entire album on
modality. It was a remarkable, landmark album that shaped
the future of modern music. It was improvisation, but each
of the performers was given a set of scales that defined the
parameters of their improvisation.
Well, I guess there’s a new sheriff in town, I say, laughing
a little.
Uh, Walt utters, almost speechless again.
Nonetheless, jazz at a high school house party sounds like
my kind of party. That’s rad, fellas.
You should come, I say to her, ’cause Walt’s not speaking
again, even though his mouth is wide open. As is his
nose.
Maybe I will. Here’s the jazz section. You want vocals or
instrumental? Ella or John Coltrane—
July 17, 1967. Coltrane died from a tumor on his liver, Walt
says, getting his bearings back. Had a weight problem, got
real fat, fell over on his porch on Staten Island, and three
weeks later, BAM!
Actually, it was Long Island.
I think I’m in love, Walt says, looking directly at her,
not realizing that he actually says it out loud.
Birth of the Cool
I watch Walt stare
at Divya
like a loyal puppy
while she plays
different songs
on a vintage record player
and he guesses
who’s playing.
You’re good, Swing, she says to him, after he tells her the
name of record number five.
“Salt Peanuts.” That’s bebop and scat. Dizzy Gillespie,
baby!
Okay, last one, for the win, she says as she puts the needle
on the record.
. . . .
Well, Divya says, I’ll need an answer.
Is it . . . Dexter Gordon?
You’re getting warm.
Charlie Parker?
Cold.
Give me a hint.
Miles Davis.
I didn’t say tell me who it is.
What’s the tune, then?
. . . .
It’s named after one of the most famous ancient Greek