Booked (14 page)

Oh, I get it—it's rare, like
once in a blue moon.

Exactly! Me and Blue Moon River are searching for the rainbow's end.

Uh . . . okay, but why River?

Nick, the river is always turning and bending. You never know where it's going to go and where you'll wind up.

Follow the bend.

That's pretty deep, Mr. Mac.

Stay on your own path. Don't let anyone deter you. Eartha Kitt said that.

Who's Bertha Schmidt?

Nicholas, turns out Ms. Hardwick isn't the only one leaving,
he says.

What do you mean?

Langston Hughes will be looking for a new librarian, too.

You're not coming back?

I'm not coming back.

Why?

Because the river turns, and there's a lot of world to see.

Are you following Ms. Hardwick?

You're a smart kid.

A new book for you,

he says, reaching

into the bag

on the ground next to him.

Thanks.
Rhyme Schemer
's a dope title, Mr. Mac.

Is this your autobiography?

It's not, but you're gonna dig it.

The question is will it rip my heart out

and stomp on it?

I'm outta here,
he says, jumping

into Blue Moon River.

Don't forget your bag, you say,

picking it up to hand to him, but

right before he speeds off

The Mac yells,

That's yours too. Be cool, Nick.

You unlock

The Mac's dragonfly box

fully expecting

bursts

of electricity

to flitter

and flutter

like blue lightning

like souls

on fire.

What you see

is even better.

WHOA!

Coach finally puts you in.

It feels good to run toward

something, and not away . . .

At Charlene's pool party you

see Coby, April in a

pink swimsuit, and, uh, your bike.

play blackjack,

you notice

The Twins

taunting some poor kid, jabbing

the air

with their red boxing gloves.

There's a first time

for everything, you think,

and a black eye

or a bruised rib

can't hurt any more

than
appendicitis.

I'll be right back, you tell Coby.

He turns around.

Actually, everyone

at the party turns around.

I'm sick of your
yobbery.

You want some of this?

Apparently he does, 'cause

he comes charging

at you

like a red bull.

As he nears, you start,

get this
,

dodging and weaving and

singing

in your best Quattlebaum voice

One-two-three, two-two-three.

When he gets to you,

you slide swiftly

to the right,

like you've got the ball

at your feet,

leaving your leg out

just enough

to trip him

face-first

into the pool.

Oh, you've really done it now, Nick.

Geesh!

Nick? What are you doing?
Coby says.

I got this, you say.

Not sure if you really do, but

realizing there's no turning back now.

Dean's doggy paddle

(apparently he can't swim)

sends everyone

into a fit of raucous laughter.

Everyone except his brother,

who is now walking

your way,

looking murderous.

He's a few feet away

when you realize that

no dance move or soccer trick

is gonna stop his death blow.

You glance down at the table

that separates you

from his wrath.

There's a book on it:

The Heroes of Olympus.

Ironic, you think.

(Fight the fear, Nick.)

(You got this, Nick.)

Don, wait a minute. Don't you want

one more day with a chance? you ask,

quoting Michonne

from
The Walking Dead,
but

without the samurai sword.

He looks confused,

maybe even a little scared.

He kicks the table out of the way.

You want some of these paws?
he says.

Do I want some
straws
? you mock.

You want my
draws
?
What!?

Hey, DJ, you scream, wild and crazy-like,

DROP
THAT
BEAT!

And now Don looks really confused.

The crowd starts laughing, and

he throws a right punch

and you suddenly remember

how to block a punch

from tae kwon do.

It works and

you feel good,

and for once

you're above water.

And that feels great

till a left

uppercut

pops up

outta nowhere

and your jaw feels

like it is in

your brain

and wait,

who shut off

All.
The.
Lights.

You don't see stars, but, above,

you do see Charlene's mother,

Coby, and your girlfriend's smile.

I thought you were dead.

Don't worry about me, Coby. I know how to take a punch.

Yeah, right in the face. You went down like a mattress. And then you hit your head on the table.

That hurt.

It was still kinda cool, though, the way you took Dean down.

He okay?

Yeah, he started screaming that he was drowning, then Don got him out and they left.

Cool!

Maybe they'll leave us alone now.

If they know what's best for them, they will.

What? Ballet?

Hey, it worked, didn't it?

I guess. Either that or Charlene's mother threatening to call the police worked. Oh, they left your bike, too.

Really?

Yep.

Hey, did April give me mouth-to-mouth resuscitation?

Nope, but Winnifred did.

WHAT?!

Just kidding.

She's going to the formal dance with me.

No way.

Yep.

Cool.

You should ask Charlene, then we can double date.

Yeah, maybe! Let's get outta here.

Let me say goodbye to April first. Come with me.

Seriously, dude.

Oh, I almost forgot. The Mac let me open his dragonfly box.

No freakin' way!

Yep.

Oh, snap!

You'll never believe what was inside . . .

At the top of the key, I'm

MOVING & GROOVING,

POPping and
ROCKING
—

Why you BUMPING?

Why you LOCKING?

Man, take this THUMPING.

Be careful though,

'cause now I'm CRUNKing

Criss
CROSSING

FLOSSING

flipping

and my dipping will leave you

S

   L

      I

         P

            P

               I

                  N

                     G
on the floor, while I

SWOOP
in

to the
finish
with a
fierce finger
roll . . .

Straight in the hole:

Swoooooooooooosh.

is my name.

But
Filthy McNasty
is my claim to fame.

Folks call me that

'cause my game's acclaimed,

so downright dirty, it'll put you to shame.

My hair is long, my height's tall.

See, I'm the next Kevin Durant,

LeBron, and Chris Paul.

Remember the greats,

my dad likes to gloat:

I balled with Magic and the Goat.

But tricks are for kids, I reply.

Don't need your pets

my game's so

fly.

Mom says,

Your dad's old school,

like an ol' Chevette.

You're fresh and new,

like a red Corvette.

Your game so sweet, it's a crêpes suzette.

Each time you play

it's ALLLLLLLLLLLLLLL net.

If anyone else called me

fresh
and
sweet,

I'd burn mad as a flame.

But I know she's only talking about my game.

See, when I play ball,

I'm on fire.

When I shoot,

I inspire.

The hoop's for sale,

and I'm the buyer.

I'm not that big on jazz music, but Dad is.

One day we were listening to a CD

of a musician named Horace Silver, and Dad says,

Josh, this cat is the real deal.

Listen to that piano, fast and free,

Just like you and JB on the court.

It's okay, I guess, Dad.

Okay? DID YOU SAY OKAY?

Boy, you better recognize

greatness when you hear it.

Horace Silver is one of the hippest.

If you shoot half as good as he jams—

Dad, no one says “hippest” anymore.

Well, they ought to, 'cause this cat

is so hip, when he sits down he's still standing,
he says.

Real funny, Dad.

You know what, Josh?

What, Dad?

I'm dedicating this next song to you.

What's the next song?

Only the best song,

the funkiest song

on Silver's
Paris Blues
album:

“FILTHY

McNASTY.”

I didn't like

the name

because so many kids

made fun of me

on the school bus,

at lunch, in the bathroom.

Even Mom had jokes.

It fits you perfectly, Josh,
she said:

You never clean your closet, and

that bed of yours is always filled

with cookie crumbs and candy wrappers.

It's just plain nasty, son.

But, as I got older

and started getting game,

the name took on a new meaning.

And even though I wasn't into

all that jazz,

every time I'd score,

rebound,

or steal a ball,

Dad would jump up

smiling and screamin',

That's my boy out there.

Keep it funky, Filthy!

And that made me feel

real good

about my nickname.

is a MYTHical MANchild

Of rather
dubious distinction

Always AGITATING

COMBINATING

and
ELEVATING
                  his game

He      dribbles

fakes

then  
takes

the ROCK to the

glass, fast,
and on
BLAST