Booked (5 page)

blowing up

your phone

with
come home
texts.

(He hasn't.)

There are, however,

two texts

and three voicemails

from your mom

and it's probably not fair

that you haven't responded,

but hey,

life isn't fair.

She, of all people,

ought to know

that.

Whatchu doing?

Just checking to see if the warden called.

Bro, you do know your dad's famous?

My dad blows.

I Googled him. Did you know he's got like nine thousand followers?

You're Googling my dad. That's weird.

I'm just saying, he's cool. Remember that time he took us to Fun Park?

Coby, we were, like, seven.

But we had fun, though. That Flying Circus ride was INSANE!

At least your dad doesn't make you read the dictionary.

It's hard for him to make me do anything, when I only see him once a year.

. . .

. . .

Your mom can cook, though. I love her food.

My mom blows.

but when she answers

you can't think

of anything to say,

so you press

END CALL.

Man up, Nick.

Tell her that her smile sparkles

like a midnight star, or something.

Or give her these.

Then he reaches

in his top drawer

and hands you,

get this,

milk chocolate

wrapped in shiny red and gold.

What am I supposed to do

with two bars of chocolate, Coby?

Not just any old chocolate, bro.

One hundred percent premium deluxe cocoa

made in Ghana!

So sweet, it'll give you a cavity

just thinking about it.

When you get home

you see Dad's note

that he's out

with friends,

which is odd

'cause you didn't know

he had any.

But it's cool,

'cause now

you can

fall asleep

watching

the Super Bowl

on ESPN Classic

without getting

a lecture

on the negative impact

of aggression

and violence

in your other

favorite sport.

Your first game

of Pop Warner

was electric.

In the fourth quarter,

a pass came

across the middle,

but before

you could catch it

and turn downfield

to score

the winning touchdown,

a brick wall

named Popeye Showalter

popped up

outta nowhere

and shut the lights off

for the longest three minutes

of your mom's life,

and that is why

you no longer play

football.

you throw the covers off

lace your cleats

grab your burgundy

and blue headband

that matches

your Barcelona jersey

(which you slept in)

throw your clothes

in the hamper

like he asked you to do

two days ago

and tiptoe

down the stairs

to sneak

out of the house

before he wakes up

and starts with

all the homework

questions.

Where are you going?
he asks, sitting on the front stoop.

Oh, hey, Dad, you say, startled. Uh, looks like the storm missed us again. Gonna be a swell weekend, you say, saluting the sun, wishing you had snuck out earlier and avoided the
blah blah blah.

So you're the weatherman now, huh?
He asks, lacing his running shoes.

You going running, Dad?

Don't try to change the subject. Do you have a match today?

This afternoon.

So, where are you going?

To meet Coby at the park.

Did you finish your homework? The
R
s?

. . .

Average person knows about twelve thousand words. Average president knows twice that,
he says,
sounding like Morgan Freeman.

Even George Bush? you say with a smirk.

You want to go to Dallas, right?

I
am
going to Dallas. Y'all already said I could go.

You do what you
need
to do, in order to do what you
want
to do. And I suspect that you still
need
to do some reading.

But, Dad, I shouldn't have to read on the weekend. I have a game this afternoon, a game tomorrow, plus there's three matches Coby and I are watching later on TV, and I—

Read for an hour, then you can go,
he shouts, already a half block into his morning stride.
And don't forget to call your mother.

ARGGH!

My dear Nicky, I'm

assuming you've been eaten

by a black mamba

or pummeled to shreds

by a stampede of mammoth

shire sport horses

since you haven't returned a

single text of mine. Love, Mom

HAY
,
Mom, why'd you BALE
?

Sorry I didn't call you

back. I've been feeling

a little HORSE
.
I

gotta TROT off. Soccer match

today. GIDDY-UP.

Miss Quattlebaum

finally pairs you

with April

for the waltz,

which is sensational,

and

one-two-three . 
.
 .

because

the right hand

must guide

the
small of

Milady's back

two-two-three . 
.
 .

across the glossy hardwood

while the lucky left

three-two-three . 
.
 .

gets to hold

her hand,

twirl her out,

four-two-three . 
.
 .

spin her in,

pull her close,

nose to nose,

for the longest,

most awesome

six seconds ever,

during which

you quietly wish

that the German dancer

who invented

the waltz

had included

a kiss.

You make a sleep mask

out of one of your dad's ties.

You try counting sheep,

backwards.

You even pick up the book about Pelé

that The Mac made you take.

Nothing works.

So, you lie there,

staring at the ceiling,

remembering

those six seconds

with April

and the past six days

without

Mom.

Coby says,
Just ask your dad to take us to school. Dang!

Trust me, you don't want that. He's got logorrhea,
^*
you answer.

That sounds disgusting.

It is.

Hey, Nick, there's April. Go for it.

Nah, I'm good.

Dean and Don aren't even around. Stop being scared.

I'm not. I just don't feel like it today.

HEY, APRIL,
he screams, then ducks.

She turns and looks.

At me.

You walk up to April, scared straight.

When's your next game?
she asks.

You swallow

your gum and

string together a few

coherent words.

We, uh, play on, um,

Saturday

at the community center.

If you had more

than three dollars

in your pocket

maybe you could buy her

a cookie or an ice cream sandwich.

Instead, you stand there frozen.

I'm coming with Charlene and my cousin.

Score a goal for me,
she says, then

shoots a smile

that sends you

to Jupiter

long enough

for Don

to “accidentally”

knock the tray

out of your hands

and bring you back

to earth.

Why'd you do that, Don?
April snaps

as you pick up the food.

Nobody's talking to you, Ape.

Shut up,
she fires back,

and gives him a shove

that only makes him laugh more,

and makes you

WANNA. SHUT. HIM. UP.

Her name's April, you say with a mean scowl.

How'd you like it if

I called you Daw instead of Don.

Daw?
he says, laughing loud enough

to startle the few kids in the lunchroom who weren't

paying attention.

That doesn't even make sense.

Daw
is the origin of your name, you continue.

It means simpleton, as in IDIOT.

He stops laughing.

As for your last name,
Eggleston,

well, that comes from the Latin word

egesta,
as in excrement, or dung.

So maybe we should call you Dumb Dung.

Now the whole lunchroom is cracking up,

April too.

Or better yet, how about
Stupid Crap
!

A guy in the back of the line hollers,

SHOTS FIRED!

Even the blond-haired cafeteria lady joins in on the fun:

Oh my, you just got cooked, son.

The place goes crazy.

It's like you're about to score

and everyone's chanting your name.

Nick Hall!
Nick Hall!
NICK HALL!

He charges, tries

to tackle you.

And then (What the—)

you snap

out of it and

realize

that none of this

happened.

ARGGH!

Say something, punk,
one-eyed Dean says,

standing in front of you.

Wait, where'd he come from?

Stay away from April,
he continues,
she's mine.

I'm not yours, and you can't tell him to stay away from me,

April shouts back.

Let's go, Nick,
she adds.

Dean knocks you into the fruit stand. You fall.

So do all the bananas and apples.

A hand reaches down to pick you up.
Let's bounce,
Coby says.

This has nothing to do with you,
HALFrican,

Don says to him, then daps one-eyed Dean, who adds,

Yeah, you BLasian, rice-eating—

But before he can finish

Coby covers up one eye, and hollers,

Yeah, well, I got my EYE on you, Dean,

and the place breaks out

in
OOOOH
s and
AAAAAH
s,

when all of a sudden, Dean

and Don both

bum-rush Coby,

who punches Don

in the stomach

before one-eyed Dean knocks him

to the ground.

You just,

get this,

stand there, still frozen

with Bubble Yum stuck

in your throat and

King Chocolate

squished

in your pocket

while your best friend

tries to fight off

two pissed-off dogs

by himself.

You know

how sometimes

at night

when you can't sleep

and you're watching

the stars go

round and round

on the ceiling fan,

replaying

that one lousy incident

over and over

in your mind,

wishing

you'd done something

different

and that if you had a do-over

you definitely

woulda swooped down

on them jokers

like a vulture

instead of just circling above,

standing idly by

while your best friend

gets a black eye

and suspended

from school?