Booked (4 page)

you fail the math test

you're scared to talk to April

and you're trapped

in a cage of misery

with freedom

nowhere in sight.

If not for soccer,

what'd be the point?

You okay, bro?

Yeah, I'm fine.

It's okay to cry if you want. I heard it kills bacteria.

Nobody's crying.

Are they coming?

I think
she
is.

DUDE, parents suck.

Yep.

They tell you why?

Something about how they still love each other but they don't like each other.

That sounds like my parents, except they don't love each other either.

Yeah, well, they're screwing up my life.

So, who are you gonna live with?

She's moving to Kentucky.

What's in Kentucky?

The Horse.

So, what are you gonna do?

She says I'll be better off, for now, living with my Dad.

She's probably right. Do they even have soccer in Kentucky?

Dude, me and him alone is a nightmare.

But you can't leave in the middle of soccer season.

It's not like she even asked me to come with her.

Wait, if your mom's moving, who's gonna take us to school?

I don't wanna talk about it.

Bro, don't tell me we gotta take the city bus. Why can't your dad take us?

Why can't your mom?

You know she works early mornings. Plus her car is orange. I'm not going out like that.

Then we better get bus passes.

Sorry your parents are splitting up, bro, but this really sucks.

I'm not trippin'. There's Coach, let's go.

is like

never hitting pause

on your favorite ninety-minute movie

but futsal is like

fast forward

for forty

supercharged minutes.

Game one

zips by

like a pronghorn antelope,

fast and furious,

and just when we wind

the corner to a record

thirteen-goal shutout

our goalie

goes down

with a,

get this,

broken pinkie

toe.

is tied

with twenty-nine seconds left.

Coby passes

the ball

to you.

Their best player attacks,

steals the ball,

passes it down court

to an open man,

who shoots it

just left of our
sub
goalie,

who normally plays midfielder:

Buzzer.

Beater.

Coach says

we must win

our final game

to advance

to the next round

of the tournament.

We say,
No problem.

When our opponents

run out on the hardwood

with their ponytails

and matching pink shirts and socks

carrying gym bags

(probably filled with glittered smartphones)

We say,
No problem.

The girls

let down

their ponytails,

high-five

their coach,

then walk over

to shake

our sweaty palms

after beating us

five to three.

How's your dinner?

It's okay.

It's your favorite.

Thanks.

I heard from Ms. Hardwick. She said you fell asleep in class. Twice.

. . .

I know this is tough, Nicky, but you can't slack off.

I wasn't asleep. I was daydreaming.

Maybe soccer is taking too much of your time.

It's not.

. . .

. . .

I saw some of your teammates crying after the game.

They weren't even really crying. It was just mewling.
^*

Well, they shoulda been bawling, 'cause those girls beat y'all like rented mules.

. . .

They whooped y'all bad,
she says, laughing and tickling.

Stop, Mom, it's not funny.

You're right, that beatdown was not funny at all.

They're ranked number one in the state. Nobody told us that.

Nobody should have to tell you to play hard. Your team just gave up, Nicky.

You mean like you and Dad . . . just gave up?

I'm sending out a search team

to look for your smile, 'cause it's

been missing. Hugs, April F.

Think she likes me?

Maybe we'll get to meet the Cowboys.

You think she likes Dean?

What's your hotel?

She said she likes my smile.

My cousin played in the Dallas Cup.

Your cousin Elvis, who drives an ice cream truck?

He played Major League Soccer for a year, though.

What should I do about April?

For starters, talk to her, dude. You've never even said hello.

I have said hello. Twice.

Enough yapping, it's getting dark. Let's go play soccer.

Can't. Gotta get home.

Why?

My mom's leaving after dinner.

The last supper.

Mm-hmm. Later.

Good luck.

I'm sorry, honey.

I don't understand. Everything was going great. Y'all didn't give me any heads up.

This doesn't change how much we still love you.

Mm-hmm.

How about a game of Ping-Pong?

Nah.

Look, Nicky, this is tough, I know, but we'll get through this.

How?

I'll be back in two weeks, and your father and I will figure some things out, okay?

Sure.

No cereal for dinner, and no skipping Etiquette.

Sure.

There are bus passes in the kitchen drawer.

Mm-hmm.

One-word answers now, that's all your mother gets?

Are we done yet? I have some homework to finish.

I'm gonna miss you, honey.

What about Dad? Aren't you gonna say goodbye to him?

We already said our goodbyes, Nicky. Now come give me a big hug.

. . .

From your window

you watch

love

and happiness

sink

like twins

in quicksand

when

she drives

away,

leaving you

suffocating

in sleeplessness,

out of breath

and hope.

Exhausted.

Trapped.

F

 A

   L

    L

      I

       N

        G.

In the middle

of Ms. Hardwick's

grammar lesson

on when to use
lay

and when to use
lie,

you lay your head

on the desk

and doze off.
zzz
zzzzz

after class

you see

The Mac

grinning

like he's just won

the lottery,

in a neon green T-shirt

that says:

Similes are like metaphors . 
.
 .

Check it out,
he says, handing

you a sheet

of paper with,

get this,

most of the words

blacked out.

You inspired me,
he says.
Pretty cool, huh?

Uh, I guess.

Ms. Hardwick showed me your assignment. Magnificent!

It wasn't all that. I just didn't feel like writing three paragraphs on why the book is ragabash.
^*

Didn't like it, huh? You're missing out.
Huckleberry Finn
is a masterpiece, my friend.

More like a disaster piece. It was way too slow.

Hmm, you want a faster piece? I've got something—

Uh, I'm good, Mr. Mac.

I'm going to hook you up, Nick.

How about you hook me up with that dragonfly box?

You're still sweating this little old box?
he asks, holding it in his hand.

Why won't you tell us what's inside, Mr. Mac?

Mystery is good for the soul.

I won't tell anybody.

Maybe,
he says, then nudges you out the library, before

you realize he's put a book in your hands.

ARGGH!

Mustard mac-and-cheese

smells

as bad

as it sounds,

and tastes

even worse.

How was school?

Fine.

Did you finish the
R
s?

. . .

He knows your pause means no.

The good colleges look for extraordinary, Nicholas. You need to know these words if you want to attend a good college, Nicholas.

College is not for, like, five years, Dad.

Placement tests. Application essays. It's all words, son. Know the words and you'll excel.

None of my friends have to memorize a thousand words. I'm not like you, Dad. Maybe I don't want to be extraordinary. Maybe I just want to be ordinary.

That's a load of
codswallop.
^*
I give you the dictionary so you'll know the world better, son. So you'll BE better.

. . .

. . .

Your mother texted me today.

. . .

She misses you.

Do you miss her?

She's worried about you, Nicholas. Give her a call.

You didn't answer my question.

It's complicated. But we're both still here for you.

You're not BOTH here. That's the problem.

Let's just finish eating.

I'm done.

He tells you

to take the leftovers

for lunch.

Yeah, right.

After you trash them,

you clear the table

and make a

bacon, ham, and cheese

sandwich

for your
actual
lunch,

then head off to

not sleep

for the third night

in a row.

Coby says,

juggling the ball

with his thighs

before passing it.

For what? You ask,

trapping it

with your chest.

For when we beat y'all in two weeks.

Not gonna happen, dude.

You kick the ball back to him.

I'm starving. Is your mom cooking?

Nah, but we got leftovers.

Watch this, Nick,
he says,

then dribbles

to the center

of his backyard and

flame throws

a banana kick

so swift,

it basically splits

the air,

then sizzles

right into

his doghouse.

While he gets the grub

you check to see

if Dad has been