Swing

by Kwame Alexander

  my dreaded dentist appointment.

  I don’t know what elevator you’ve been riding on, but this

  is pure magic. THIS is what floating inside a love boat on

  the serene sea of soulmates feels like.

  A love boat, dude . . . soulmates? What is going on? Are

  you in . . .

  Love? I could be. Divya likes me, man.

  Congratulations.

  She really likes me. She laughed like a songbird at my

  brilliant wit, and her velvety violin of a voice soothed my

  nerves as soon as we got on the phone. I think it went

  really, really well. My first phone date . . .

  Your first date, period.

  We made a connection. And that’s what’s important. Looks

  like one of us had a successful night.

  Whatever.

  So back to your art . . .

  Yeah, I don’t know. Maybe I do suck.

  You know what you need to do. You need to listen to the

  song. Really listen to it. Again. And again. So, close your

  eyes and tap into the rhythm of the song. Escape into it,

  float away on the—

  Wave, yeah, I get it already, I say, not ready

  to admit that

  the rhythmic guitar

  and the smooth piano

  and the soft drums

  and, yeah,

  the waves,

  are kinda refreshing.

  Searching

  I look for Sam

  all over

  school,

  but she’s not in any

  of her usual spots.

  I reluctantly

  walk up

  to Cruz,

  who’s standing

  in the hallway

  with his baseball buddies.

  Hey, Cruz, do you know where Sam is?

  He shrugs

  his shoulder,

  winches

  his face

  like he doesn’t know

  and doesn’t care,

  then turns his back

  and starts talking

  and laughing

  like I was never

  even there.

  MIA

  Sam is nowhere to be seen.

  Walt doesn’t know.

  She’s not in class.

  Not in the usual hallways.

  Not in the cafeteria.

  Not outside her locker.

  Not in school.

  Vanished.

  Maybe she knows.

  Maybe she got my latest

  and she hates it.

  Maybe she hates me.

  Text to Sam

  2:12 pm

  Sam, are you okay?

  Walt and I are worried. Please

  holla back ASAP.

  Text from Sam

  5:37 pm

  NOAH, CALL ME! IT’S

  AN EMERGENCY. I CAN’T

  BELIEVE THIS HAPPENED!

  What Happened Was

  You okay, Sam?

  No. I hate Cruz, she says, between tears.

  What happened? What did he do?

  He said we were going on a date and he took me to

  McDonalds, which I told him I hated—and how could

  he not know that after we’ve been going out for this long?

  Then he called me stuck up, and we started arguing right

  there in the middle of McDonalds. Then he said he needed

  a break.

  A break?

  He broke up with me.

  . . . .

  I told him things were moving too fast.

  . . . .

  Then he kirked off, said I was teasing him along.

  I’m sorry, Sam.

  I just hate him, she says, still sobbing.

  You want me to come over?

  I want ice cream.

  I can bring you some.

  Meet me at Dairy Queen. One hour.

  How about I bring you Breyers?

  That’s fine. Just hurry.

  I throw my clothes on

  quicker than Clark Kent

  turning into Superman,

  run downstairs,

  see Walt

  passed out

  with smooth jazz

  as his lullaby.

  I grab my car keys,

  quietly head out

  the door

  for my date

  with ice cream

  and destiny.

  Mayhem

  On my way

  into the convenience store

  to get ice cream

  for Sam,

  a police officer stops me,

  starts asking

  if I saw anything.

  A UPS truck driver

  comes by, says,

  He was a white guy,

  big and scary-looking,

  with a lot of hair, but

  he was short

  and he ran fast,

  though he could have been

  black, but I think

  he was white.

  An older woman

  is crying,

  pointing to

  her groceries

  on the ground.

  He was tall

  and scary, like

  a giant, and he

  knocked over

  my bag,

  but he stopped

  and started helping me

  pick everything up. Then

  we heard sirens

  and he ran away.

  YEAH, I SAW HIM,

  I SAW HIM,

  a man in glasses

  says frantically

  to the police officers.

  HE WAS TALL, MAYBE

  BROWN, MAYBE TAN

  IN THE FACE, AND HE

  LOOKED LIKE HIM,

  he continues,

  pointing to the UPS driver,

  and getting angry

  ’cause the police

  won’t let him remove

  the dozen

  or so

  miniature flags

  behind the wipers

  on his car windshield.

  Calm down, one of the officers says.

  He was putting the flags on my car,

  and he was screaming.

  I don’t know who

  he was screaming at,

  but when he saw me,

  he ran. He ran fast,

  like his feet were

  on fire.

  Did you see anything? one

  of the officers

  asks me.

  No, sir, I say, tasting the sweat

  dripping down

  my face.

  I just got here.

  He went that way, says a raspy voice I recognize.

  I turn around

  to see the old man

  with the trumpet

  pointing to the sky.

  He flew, like a bird in the clouds. Couldn’t even get a good

  look at him, he continues,

  then disappears

  into the store

  as quickly

  as he appeared.

  Chance Encounter

  I head into the store,

  anxious

  and hot,

  to the freezer section

  for ice cream

  for Sam.

  I open a door

  and stick my head in

  to cool off.

  I grab the one

  that’s on sale,

  and as I turn the corner

  to go pay,

  there he is,

  almost like

  he’s waiting

  for me.

  There’s something

  about this man

  and his trumpet.

  Here one minute,

  gone the next,

  then back again

  like a ghost,

  or an angel.

  It’s you, I say.

  It is I.
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  Phantom

  You okay, Youngblood? You look ruffled, he says, like he

  actually cares.

  It’s just everything’s kinda outta control right now.

  Everyone’s freakin’ out about those flags, and then I

  see you again, and I think you said something about

  somebody flying. And on top of it, my best friend, this girl

  I’ve cared about for years, got her heart ripped out by her

  boyfriend, so I’m bringing her ice cream to cheer her up.

  You’re worried about people flying. I’m worried that you’re

  bringing your friend ice cream to cure a broken heart.

  That’s just empty calories.

  Yeah, I know, but she loves ice cream. We used to eat

  frozen yogurt and ice cream together all the time. To

  celebrate birthdays and good grades.

  You love her.

  Huh? She’s my friend.

  You love her more than a friend, he says, laughing with his

  few teeth and gums showing.

  . . . .

  It’s in your walk. Shoot, man, the desperation in your eyes is

  blinding. Let me put my shades back on.

  . . . .

  A little advice. Ice cream will only cool her down and freeze

  her tongue. You want to put fire in her heart, bring her

  something that fills her with warmth.

  What, like hot sauce?

  He laughs so hard,

  the cashier asks us

  to hurry up,

  if we’re buying something.

  Youngblood, a life without the warmth of love is a sunless

  garden when the flowers are dead.

  Huh?

  Follow me, he gestures, and

  we walk

  to the floral section.

  What do you suppose she’d like?

  Flower-wise? I point to some red puffball-looking things.

  Carnations are the cheap man’s rose.

  Perfect, I say, grabbing a handful.

  Stop, son. Put those down. Is she a name for you to post,

  a picture for you to share? Or is she the flowering garden

  that will bloom over and over again, with an abundance of

  possibilities?

  The garden, I guess.

  You guess? What is she to you?

  One of my best friends. The only girl I ever dream about,

  ever think about.

  The rarest of sapphires?

  Yeah, I guess.

  . . . .

  I mean, yes, she is, most definitely.

  Give her a blue orchid. Tell her it is rare, stunning, and

  strong like her. It will last as long as she nurtures it. And it

  will bloom again. Just like she will.

  You haven’t even seen her.

  No, but the way you were running through the store to

  grab a pint of ice cream for a girl, I knew.

  Doesn’t look like they have orchids.

  Then pick something else, something electric, he says,

  walking up the aisle

  and out

  of the store,

  whistling something

  I think Walt has

  played for me

  before.

  I pick up

  the most electric flowers

  on sale

  and jet.

  Happiness

  Who died?

  Huh?

  The flowers.

  They’re for you, Sam.

  They’re gladiolus. Funeral flowers, Noah.

  Oh, my bad. I thought they looked pretty, I guess.

  The thought is what matters.

  Well, you can’t go wrong with ice cream.

  Awww, you’re so sweet. You’re the only one who listens to

  me, who really knows me.

  . . . .

  You want a cone too?

  Sure.

  We sit at her kitchen counter,

  and she devours her scoop

  like she’s starved

  with sadness.

  Her eyes say

  her soul

  is wandering

  or lost.

  I know I need to find a way

  to make her feel good

  again.

  Want to talk about it? I ask.

  Not really.

  You deserve . . .

  Better. Yeah, I know.

  Yeah . . . Well, it’s true.

  Come with me to the living room. There’s something I

  want to do.

  Trap

  Come, sit down.

  She leads me to the couch

  like a psychiatrist

  prepping a patient

  for a mental evaluation.

  Love and ice cream are all we really need, Noah.

  True.

  Oh, I almost forgot, I got another love letter, she says,

  reaching into her backpack.

  . . . .

  It was in the mailbox. If I hadn’t come home early, my

  mom would have checked the box and asked me like a

  hundred questions.

  . . . .

  It’s the one bright spot in all this darkness.

  . . . .

  Here, look. Help me read between the lines to figure out

  who this rebel is, okay?

  She shuffles them around

  as I try to think

  of an exit plan,

  because I can feel a panic

  swell up in me,

  but I don’t want to be

  a wimp.

  They’re all so random, romantic, intelligent. Who is this X,

  Noah?

  No idea.

  Let’s read them aloud. It’ll be like theater class last year.

  I got a C minus in that class. Remember? I think it’s

  better if you just read them.

  Come on, Noah. It would make me smile.

  Fine.

  Love Is the Reader

  She hands me

  the first one,

  the one Walt stole and delivered,

  the one that started this whole thing.

  And for a moment in my mind,

  I am pummeling him.

  But her wide grin softens me.

  Go ahead, Noah. Read.

  So, I read.

  Awww, you’re blushing again!

  Am not. I’m just hot, I lie.

  I look down,

  continue reading

  the most recent one,

  trying not to suffocate,

  trying not to melt.

  I just want to escape

  the fire

  as fast

  as possible.

  I finish

  as a trickle of sweat

  drips down

  onto the paper.

  I think you should have gotten an A in theater class. You

  read like a pro. You read like a boy who knows love.

  . . . .

  X-Man

  There is a sign

  in the front yard

  of my heart, she says,

  after we are both silent

  for long enough.

  It reads: No trespassing.

  But now, this:

  A secret

  painted on the wall

  of my desire.

  Noah, I must tell you,

  I don’t want to play

  the game

  of love anymore.

  Cruz has spoiled

  everything

  for me.

  But X gives me hope.

  Who are you?

  Who is he, Noah?

  No Dice

  We lie next to each other,

  sink into her old couch,

  feeding each other

  more mint chocolate chip

  like we were meant

  to be.

  My heart, a steel drum.
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br />   It pounds. POUNDS!

  Should I kiss her?

  I’ve never kissed anyone.

  I put my arm around her,

  try to comfort her.

  She inches closer.

  My arm feels like

  it’s going to dislodge

  from my shoulder

  and float away

  in bliss.

  Her hair

  smells like fresh sea.

  I close my eyes.

  The Wave is on its way.

  I hear Walt:

  Go for it, bro. You have to take these chances while you

  have them.

  And as I move

  my head closer to hers,

  she says,

  You know, Noah, I’m feeling better. You’re like the sweetest

  brother a girl could ever have.

  And just like that,

  all my dreams

  come true

  are blown.

  A Secret

  Her phone rings.

  Over and over.

  I’m not talking to him, she says, throwing the phone

  across the room.

  She turns off

  the TV,

  sits up,

  grabs my hand.

  You still having your party?

  Walt’s been doing all the planning, so yeah, I guess. You

  still coming?

  I don’t know.

  . . . .

  Did I ever tell you why my parents got divorced?

  No, you didn’t. And I felt bad asking . . . and that’s why I

  never . . . She squeezes my hand. Hard.

  Well, five years ago, our German shepherd Lucy ate some

  woman’s lingerie. When they recovered the skimpy outfit