The Crossover (6 page)

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.

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.

[
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?

Identical twins

are no different

from everyone else,

except we look and

sometimes sound

exactly alike.

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.

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.

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.

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

a ghost.

After practice, you walk home alone.

This feels strange to you, because

as long as you can remember

there has always been a second person.

On today's long, hot mile,

you bounce your basketball,

but your mind

is on something else.

Not whether you will make the playoffs.

Not homework.

Not even what's for dinner.

You wonder what JB

and his pink Reebok–wearing girlfriend are doing.

You do not want to go to the library.

But you go.

Because your report on
The Giver
is due

tomorrow.

And JB has your copy.

But he's with her.

Not here with you.

Which is unfair.

Because he doesn't argue

with you about who's the greatest,

Michael Jordan or Bill Russell,

like he used to.

Because JB will not eat lunch

with you tomorrow

or the next day,

or next week.

Because you are walking home

by yourself

and your brother owns the world.

You walk into the library,

glance over at the music section.

You look through the magazines.

You even sit at a desk and pretend to study.

You ask the librarian where you can find
The Giver.

She says something odd:

Did you find your friend?

Then she points upstairs.

On the second floor,

you pass by the computers.

Kids checking their Facebook.

More kids in line waiting

to check their Facebook.

In the Biography section

you see an old man

reading
The Tipping Point.

You walk down the last aisle,

Teen Fiction,

and come to the reason you're here.

You remove the book

from the shelf.

And there,

behind the last row of books,

you find

the “friend”

the librarian was talking about.

Only she's not your friend

and she's kissing

your brother.

[
TIH-PING POYNT
]
noun

 

The point

when an object shifts

from one position

into a new,

entirely different one.

 

As in: My dad says the
tipping point

of our country's economy

was housing gamblers

and greedy bankers.

 

As in: If we get one C

on our report cards,

I'm afraid

Mom will reach

her
tipping point

and that will be the end

of basketball.

 

As in: Today at the library,

I went upstairs,

walked down an aisle,

pulled
The Giver

off the shelf,

and found

my
tipping point.

is not because

of the game tomorrow tonight,

is not because

the stubble on my head feels

like bugs are break dancing on it,

is not even because I'm worried about Dad.

 

The main reason

I can't sleep tonight

is because

Jordan is on the phone

with Miss Sweet Tea

and between the giggling

and the breathing

he tells her

how much she's

the apple of

his eye

and that he wants

to peel her

and get under her skin

and give me a break.

I'm still hungry

and right about now

I wish I had

an apple

of my own.

I have it all planned out.

When we walk to the game

I will talk to JB

man to man

about how he's spending

way more time with Alexis

than with me

and Dad.

 

Except when I hear

the horn,

I look outside

my window and it's raining

and JB is jumping

into a car

with Miss Sweet Tea and her dad,

ruining my plan.

In the car

I ask Dad

 

if going to the doctor

will kill him.

 

He tells me

he doesn't trust doctors,

 

that my grandfather did

and look where it got him:

 

six feet under

at forty-five.

 

But Mom says your dad

was really sick, I tell him,

 

and Dad just rolls his eyes,

so I try something different.

 

I tell him

that just because your teammate

 

gets fouled on a lay-up

doesn't mean you shouldn't

 

ever drive to the lane again.

He looks at me and

 

laughs so loud,

we almost don't hear

 

the flashing blues

behind us.

At 5:28 p.m.

a cop

pulls us over

because Dad has

a broken

taillight.

 

At 5:30

the officer approaches

our car

and asks Dad

for his driver's license

and registration.

 

At 5:32

the team leaves

the locker room and

pregame warm-ups

begin

without me.

 

At 5:34

Dad explains

to the officer

that his license

is in his wallet,

which is in his jacket

at home.

 

At 5:37

Dad says,
Look, sir,

my name is Chuck Bell,

and I'm just trying

to get my boy

to his basketball game.

 

At 5:47

while Coach leads

the Wildcats

in team prayer,

I pray Dad

won't get arrested.

 

At 5:48

the cop smiles

after verifying

Dad's identity

on Google, and says,

You “Da Man”!

 

At 5:50

Dad autographs

a Krispy Kreme napkin

for the officer

and gets a warning

for his broken taillight.

 

At 6:01

we arrive at the game

but on my sprint

into the gym

I slip and fall

in the mud.