Kwame Alexander - The Crossover

And I understand more than she thinks I do.

But is hummus really the answer?

35–18

is the final score

of game six.

A local reporter

asks JB and I

how we got so good.

Dad screams from behind us,

They learned from Da Man!

The crowd of parents and students

behind us laughs.

On the way home

Dad asks if we should stop

at Pollard’s.

I tell him I’m not hungry,

plus I have a lot of homework,

even though

I skipped lunch today

and finished my homework

during halftime.

Too Good

Lately, I’ve been feeling

like everything in my life

is going right:

I beat JB in Madden.

Our team is undefeated.

I scored an A+ on the vocabulary test.

Plus, Mom’s away at a conference,

which means

so is the Assistant Principal.

I am a little worried, though,

because, as Coach likes to say,

you can get used to

things going well,

but you’re never prepared

for something

going wrong.

I’m on Free Throw Number Twenty-Seven

We take turns,

switching every time we miss.

JB has hit forty-one,

the last twelve in a row.

Filthy, keep up, man, keep up, he says.

Dad laughs loud, and says,

Filthy, your brother is putting on

a free-throw clinic. You better—

And suddenly he bowls over,

a look of horror on his face,

and starts coughing

while clutching his chest,

only no sound comes. I freeze.

JB runs over to him.

Dad, you okay? he asks.

I still can’t move. There is a stream

of sweat on Dad’s face. Maybe

he’s overheating, I say.

His mouth is curled up

like a little tunnel. JB grabs

the water hose, turns the

faucet on full blast, and sprays

Dad. Some of it goes in Dad’s mouth.

Then I hear the sound

of coughing, and Dad is no longer leaning

against the car, now he’s moving

toward the hose, and laughing.

So is JB.

Then Dad grabs the hose

and sprays both of us.

Now I’m laughing too,

but only

on the outside.

He probably

just got something stuck

in his throat,

JB says

when I ask him

if he thought

Dad was sick

and shouldn’t we

tell Mom

what happened.

So, when the phone rings,

it’s ironic

that after saying hello,

he throws the phone to me,

because, even though

his lips are moving,

JB is speechless,

like he’s got something stuck

in his

throat.

i·ron·ic

[AY-RON-IK] adjective

Having a curious or humorous

unexpected sequence of events

marked by coincidence.

As in: The fact that Vondie

hates astronomy

and his mom works for NASA

is ironic.

As in: It’s not ironic

that Grandpop died

in a hospital

and Dad doesn’t like

doctors.

As in: Isn’t it ironic

that showoff JB,

with all his swagger,

is too shy

to talk

to Miss Sweet Tea,

so he gives me the phone?

This Is Alexis—May I Please Speak to Jordan?

Identical twins

are no different

from everyone else,

except we look and

sometimes sound

exactly alike.

Phone Conversation (I Sub for JB)

Was that your brother?

Yep, that was Josh. I’m JB.

I know who you are, silly—I called you.

Uh, right. You have any siblings, Alexis?

Two sisters. I’m the youngest.

And the prettiest.

You haven’t seen them.

I don’t need to.

That’s sweet.

Sweet as pomegranate.

Okay, that was random.

That’s me.

Jordan, can I ask you something?

Yep.

Did you get my text?

Uh, yeah.

So, what’s your answer?

Uh, my answer. I don’t know.

Stop being silly, Jordan.

I’m not.

Then tell me your answer. Are y’all rich?

I don’t know.

Didn’t your dad play in the NBA?

No, he played in Italy.

But still, he made a lot of money, right?

It’s not like we’re opulent.

Who says “opulent”?

I do.

You never use big words like that at school . . .

I have a reputation to uphold.

Is he cool?

Who?

Your dad.

Very.

So, when are you gonna introduce me?

Introduce you?

To your parents.

I’m waiting for the right moment.

Which is when?

Uh—

So, am I your girlfriend or not?

Uh, can you hold on for a second?

Sure, she says.

Cover the mouthpiece, JB mouths to me.

I do, then whisper to him:

She wants to know are you her boyfriend.

And when are you gonna introduce her

to Mom and Dad. What should I tell her, JB?

Tell her yeah, I guess, I mean, I don’t know.

I gotta pee, JB says, running

out of the room, leaving me still in his shoes.

Okay, I’m back, Alexis.

So, what’s the verdict, Jordan?

Do you want to be my girlfriend?

Are you asking me to be your girl?

Uh, I think so.

You think so? Well, I have to go now.

Yes.

Yes, what?

I like you. A lot.

I like you, too . . . Precious.

So, now I’m Precious?

Everyone calls you JB.

Then I guess it’s official.

Text me later.

Good night, Miss Sweet—

What did you call me?

Uh, good night, my sweetness.

Good night, Precious.

JB comes running out of the bathroom.

What’d she say, Josh? Come on, tell me.

She said she likes me a lot, I tell him.

You mean she likes me a lot? he asks.

Yeah . . .

that’s what I meant.

JB and I

eat lunch

together

every day,

taking bites

of Mom’s

tuna salad

on wheat

between arguments:

Who’s the better dunker,

Blake or LeBron?

Which is superior,

Nike

or Converse?

Only today

I wait

at our table

in the back

for twenty-five minutes,

texting Vondie

(home sick),

eating a fruit cup

(alone),

before I see

JB strut

into the cafeteria

with Miss Sweet Tea

holding his

precious hand.

Boy walks into a room

with a girl.

They come over.

He says, Hey, Filthy McNasty

like he’s said forever,

but it sounds different

this time,

and when he snickers,

she does too,

like it’s some inside joke,

and my nickname,

some dirty

punch

line.

At practice

Coach says we need to work

on our mental game.

If we think

we can beat Independence Junior High—

the defending champions,

the number one seed,

the only other undefeated team—

then we will.

But instead of drills

and sprints,

we sit on our butts,

make weird sounds—

Ohmmmmmmmm Ohmmmmmmmm—

and meditate.

Suddenly I get this vision

of JB in a hospital.

I quickly open my eyes,

turn around,

and see him looking dead

at me like he’s just seen

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