Booked (3 page)

Do me a favor and stop complaining about trying to be excellent.

Whatever, you mumble.

What did you say?

Nothing. I need to use the bathroom.

Then go. And bring me a pillow from the guest room.

Why?

Because I need a pillow.

You're sleeping down here?

I am. Now, hurry up. We still have to go over our words.

Your
words, you mumble on your way out.

Coby

comes up

to you

at lunch

and asks

if you knew the twins

were back

at school.

Then

he asks

if you knew

one of 'em

was in the library

talking

to April.

are pit-bull mean

eighth grade tyrants

with beards.

They used to

play

soccer

with you

and Coby

till they got kicked

out of the league

for literally tackling

opponents

and then,

get this,

biting them.

The twins live

down the block

from Langston Hughes

Middle School of the Arts,

which is why they get to go here,

since the only art

they're interested in

is pugilism,
^*

as evidenced by

the flaming-red boxing gloves

they sometimes sneak

into school

to punch

other kids with

(which is how they ended up

at the Alternative Behavior Center,

or the ABC, for the past year).

swings open

just as you and Coby arrive.

The twins grit hard.

Hey, PUNK,
Don says,

emphasizing
punk,
pushing

you to the ground and

stepping on

your backpack.

They stare Coby down,

like they're gonna do something.

He stares back.

Don't let me catch you with my girl,
Dean says

to you, laughing, then kicking your

bag again, before leaving,

and never saying a word to Coby,

because even though

Dean and Don are mean dogs,

always out for blood,

and prone to bite,

they only
bark

at Coby.

the library

April waves

from the back corner,

but before you can wave back,

Mr. MacDonald,

the librarian,

jumps in front of you,

holding

a hardcover book

in his colossal left hand,

a neon green bowling ball

in his right,

and sporting

a way-too-big 4XL tee

that reads:

Irony: The Opposite of Wrinkly

Here fellas, take a book.

Uh, no thanks, Mr. MacDonald. We just came in to—

To join Nerds and Words? Excellent, Nick. We could use some boys in our book club.

Maybe another time. I don't really do books.

It's a quick read­—try it out this weekend.

Can't, Mr. Mac, we got a futsal
^*
tournament.

A book brawl tournament?

Futsal.

Your foot's all permanent?

. . .

I heard about that thing in Ms. Hardwick's class. You know I'm the king of malapropisms.

Uh, o-kay.

What's up with the bowling ball, Mr. Mac?

Big game this weekend too. Got to get my match-play mojo on.

I don't even know what that means.

So, Coby, you want to join the book club?

Pass,
Coby says, laughing.
Maybe if you changed the name to Books and Babes I might join
.

Let us see what's in your dragonfly box and we'll join, you say, before

The Mac starts,

get this,

rapping:

The Mac drinks tea

in a dragonfly mug.

On the library floor

is a dragonfly rug.

The door is covered

with dragonfly pics,

'
cause Skip to the Mac

is dragonfly sick.

Sometimes I wear

a dragonfly hat.

Got dragonfly this

and dragonfly that.

Around my room

are dragonfly clocks.

But please don't touch

my dragonfly box.

'Cause if you do

I might get cross.

Respect the Mac,

Dragonfly Boss!

The Mac

is a corny-joke-cracking,

seven-foot

bowling fanatic

with a reddish mohawk

who wears funny T-shirts

and high-top Converse sneakers.

He used to be a rap producer,

but now

he only listens to

wack elevator music, because, he says,

hip-hop is dead.

When I ask him

who killed it,

he says:
Ringtones and objectification.

Which is reason #1

why he left the music business

at age twenty-nine,

to become,

get this,

a librarian?!

Reason #2 is

the brain surgery

he had

two years ago

that left him

with a scar

that runs across his head

from his left ear to his right.

But he's the coolest adult

in our school, and

to prove it, he's got

a Grammy Award

for best rap song

sitting right at checkout,

in plain view

for everyone to see

and touch.

Plus, he's won

Teacher of the Year

more times than Brazil

has won

the
World Cup.

(And he's not even a teacher.)

So when he gets all geeked

about his nerdy book club

or breaks into some random rap

in the middle of a conversation,

most people smile or clap,

because we're all just happy

The Mac's still alive.

Great discussion today, class.

I'm sure you all see why

Mark Twain is one

of our greatest literary

treasures,
Ms. Hardwick says.

With only five minutes left in class,

it's probable she's forgotten

the assignment

she gave you,

which means

you're off the hook.

Tomorrow, we will begin

another classic

of children's literature.

One of my favorites,

Tuck Everlasting.

And your laughter gushes

like an open fire hydrant

'cause you could have sworn

You heard an
F
,

Instead of
T
.

I see our comedian is back.

Would you like to share

what's so funny

with the rest of the class?

Uh, no thanks, I'm good.

Winey,
the know-it-all,

a.k.a. Winnifred,

the girl who beat you

in the elementary school spelling bee,

raises her hand:

Ms. Hardwick,

wasn't Nick supposed to

present a malapropism

to us today?
she whines.

ARGGH!

Thank you, Winnifred,

Ms. Hardwick interrupts.

Nick, here's your chance to be funny.

Were you able to find

a malapropism

in
Huckleberry Finn
?

No, you say,

handing her

the assignment.

I actually found two.

when Ms. Hardwick

reads your assignment

then runs

into the hallway

cachinnating
^*

like she's about to pee

in her polyester.

Mom's asking

random questions

about girls and school,

Dad's talking

about some new,

weird word

he's found,

and you're eating

as fast as you can,

so you can finish

and get online

to play FIFA

with Coby.

But tonight is different.

the food's good, as usual—

fettucine alfredo with jumbo shrimp,

corn on the cob,

garlic bread sticks—

but,

get this,

no one's saying a word.

It's like church

during prayer.

Dead silence.
Crickets.

Something's not right.

Can I have two hundred dollars to take to the Dallas Cup? you ask.

That's absurd, Nicky,
Mom answers.

Coby's dad is giving him five hundred.

It's not for a while. We'll discuss is later,
she adds.

Dad doesn't say anything, which confirms

that something's up, 'cause he

ALWAYS. HAS. SOMETHING. TO. SAY.

Then it's all hush-hush again.

You clear the table,

Mom hugs you

longer than usual,

then you head upstairs

to cram

for your math test when

you hear Dad,

from the living room, say,

Nicholas, can you come in here for a minute?

Your mother and I need to talk with you,

and you pray

they didn't find out

about the lamp

you broke

while kicking

the ball

in your room.

When Mom says

she's decided to go back to work,

you're not too surprised,

'cause you know

how much she misses

being around horses

since Dad moved

the family

to the city

for his teaching job.

When she says

she's decided

to take a job

in Kentucky,

it jolts you,

'cause moving away

from your friends

and teammates

in the middle

of the school year

is vicious.

But when she says,

Nicky, your father and I

are separating,

it's like a bombshell

drops

right in the center

of your heart

and splatters

all across your life.

It does not take

a math genius

to understand that

when you subtract

a mother

from the equation

what remains

is negative.

After you finish

crying

and the sadness finds

a home

in what's left

of your heart,

you ask her

when she's leaving

you.

I'm not leaving

YOU, Nicky. I have to go

out next week,

meet with the racing team,

but I'll be back

every other weekend

until the Triple Crown,

and then I'm home

for the summer

and we'll figure out

how to fix all this.

How is she gonna

fix this shattered heart,

you wonder?

you can't sleep

your head aches

your stomach's a wreck

your soul's on fire

your parents are clueless

you fall asleep in class