Kwame Alexander: The Crossover

Her hair dances to its own song.

In this moment I forget

about the test

and the note

until JB hits me in the head with his No. 2.

Somewhere between

camaraderie and imbecile

I tap her beige bare shoulder

with the note.

At that exact moment

the teacher’s head creeps

up from his desk, his eyes directly on me.

I’m a fly caught in a web.

What do I do?

Hand over the note, embarrass JB;

or hide the note, take the heat.

I look at my brother,

his forehead a factory of sweat.

Miss Sweet Tea smiles,

gorgeous pink lips and all.

I know what I have to do.

Bad News

I sit in Mom’s office

for an hour,

reading

brochures and pamphlets

about the Air Force and the Marines.

She’s in and out

handling principal stuff:

a parent protesting her daughter’s F;

a pranked substitute teacher crying;

a broken window.

After an hour

she finally sits

in the chair next to me

and says, The good news is,

I’m not going to suspend you.

The bad news, Josh,

is that

neither Duke nor any other college

accepts cheaters. Since I can’t

seem to make a decent man out of you

perhaps the Air Force or Marines can.

I want to tell her I wasn’t cheating,

that this is all JB and Miss Sweet Tea’s fault,

that this will never happen again,

that Duke is the only thing that matters,

but a water pipe bursts in the girls’ bathroom.

So I tell her I’m sorry,

it won’t happen again,

then head off to my next class.

Gym class

is supposed to be about balls:

volleyballs, basketballs, softballs,

soccer balls—sometimes sit-ups

and always sweat.

But today Mr. Lane tells

us not to dress out.

He’s standing in front of the class,

a dummy laid out on the floor,

plastic, faceless, torso cut in half.

I’m not paying attention

to anything he’s saying

or to the dummy

because

I’m watching Jordan pass notes

to Miss Sweet Tea. And I

wonder what’s in the notes.

Josh, why don’t you come up

and assist me.

What? Huh?

The class snickers,

and before I know it

I’m tilting the dummy’s head back,

pinching his nose,

blowing in his mouth,

and pumping his chest

thirty times.

All the while

thinking that if life is really fair

one day I’ll be the one

writing notes to some sweet girl

and JB will have to squash his lips

on some dummy’s sweaty mouth.

Conversation

Hey, JB,

I played a pickup game

at the Rec today.

At first, the older guys laughed

and wouldn’t let me in

unless I could hit from half-court . . .

Of course, I did. All net.

I wait for JB to say something,

but he just smiles,

his eyes all moony.

I showed them guys

how the Bells ball.

I scored fourteen points.

They told me I should

try out for junior varsity next year

’cause I got hops . . .

JB, are you listening?

JB nods, his fingers tapping away

on the computer, chatting

probably with

Miss Sweet Tea.

I told the big guys about you, too.

They said we could come back and

run with them anytime.

What do you think about that?

HELLO—Earth to JB?

Even though I know he hears me,

the only thing JB is listening to

is the sound of his heart

bouncing

on the court

of love.

Conversation

Dad, this girl is making

Jordan act weird.

He’s here, but he’s not.

He’s always smiling.

His eyes get all spacey

whenever she’s around,

and sometimes when she’s not.

He wears your cologne.

He’s always

texting her.

He even wore loafers to school.

Dad, you gotta do something.

Dad does something.

He laughs.

Filthy, talking to your brother

right now

would be like pushing water uphill

with a rake, son.

This isn’t funny, Dad.

Say something

to him. Please.

Filthy, if some girl

done locked up JB,

he’s going to jail.

Now let’s go get some doughnuts.

Basketball Rule #5

When

you stop

playing

your game

you’ve already

lost.

Showoff

UP by sixteen

with six seconds

showing, JB smiles,

then STRUTS

side

steps

stutters

Spins, and

S

I

N

K

S

a sick SLICK SLIDING

SWeeeeeeeeeeT

SEVEN-foot shot.

What a showoff.

Out of Control

Are you kidding me?

Come on. Ref, open your eyes.

Ray Charles could have seen

that kid walked.

CALL THE TRAVELING VIOLATION!

You guys are TERRIBLE!

Mom wasn’t

at the game

tonight,

which meant

that all night

Dad was free

to yell

at the officials,

which he did.

Mom calls me into the kitchen

after we get home from beating

St. Francis. Normally she wants

me to sample the macaroni and cheese

to make sure it’s cheesy enough,

or the oven-baked fried chicken

to make sure it’s not greasy and

stuff, but today on the table

is some gross-looking

orange creamy dip with brown specks in it.

A tray of pita-bread triangles is beside it.

Maybe Mom is having one of

her book club meetings.

Sit down, she says. I sit as far

away from the dip as possible.

Maybe the chicken is in the oven.

Where is your brother? she asks.

Probably on the phone with that girl.

She hands me a pita.

No thanks, I say, then stand up

to leave, but she gives me a look

that tells me she’s not finished

with me. Maybe the mac is in the oven.

We’ve talked to you two about

your grandfather, she says.

He was a good man. I’m sorry you never got to meet him, Josh.

Me too, he looked cool in his uniforms.

That man was way past cool.

Dad said he used to curse

a lot and talk about the war.

Mom’s laugh is short, then she’s serious again.

I know we told

you Grandpop died after a fall, but

the truth is he fell because he had a stroke.

He had a heart disease. Too

many years of bad eating and not taking

care of himself and so—

What does this have

to do with anything? I ask,

even though I think I already know.

Well, our family has a history

of heart problems, she says,

so we’re going to start eating better.

Especially Dad. And we’re going to

start tonight with

some hummus and

pita bread.

FOR MY VICTORY DINNER?

Josh, we’re going to try to lay off the fried foods

and Golden Dragon. And when your dad

takes you to the recreation center,

no Pollard’s or Krispy Kreme afterward, understand?