Free Booked by Kwame Alexander Page A

me?
    No one’s blaming you. I’m just asking—
    Â 
    I’m tired of this. You’re always fussing
    at me for not reading your stupid dictionary
    or cleaning up my room.
    You don’t let me do ANYTHING.
    You take my phone,
    you took Mom,
    and now you want to
    take away
    the last good thing
    in my freakin’ life:
    SOCCER.
    Â 
    Calm down, Nicholas.
    NO. I’m sick of it.
    My life sucks.
    I get bullied at school.
    I get bullied at home.
    I HATE MY LIFE!
    I wish I was. Sometimes, I just wish I was—
    Â 
    What? You wish you were what?
    Â 
    Dead.

A Good Cry
    The blasting rap music
    in your headphones
    makes you feel less sad
    but still angry
    about things, so
    you start ripping
    pages
    from books
    on your shelf
    and only stop
    when you get to
    his dictionary, because
    even though you’re pissed
    you’re not stupid.
    At the top
    of the page
    you almost ripped
    is the word
    sweven.
*

    Â 
    You fall asleep
    repeating it
    497 times
    and dream that . . .
    Â 
    You sprained your ankle
    on a dictionary while
    moonwalking
    with Michael Jackson.
    Â 
    Your parents
    celebrate
    their twentieth anniversary
    at the Dallas Cup.
    Â 
    You beat up
    Dean and Don
    for picking on April, and then
    Â 
    you fall off
    a mountain
    but right before
    you CRASH
    you wake up
    crying
    in your mom’s
    arms.

What are you doing here?
    Dad called,
she says, wiping your tears.
I drove all night. We’re both worried about you, Nicky.
    I’m fine, Mom.
    Â 
    He told me what you said.
    Mom, of course I’m not gonna kill myself. I was just upset when I said that.
    Â 
    What about that stuff you posted online?
    Seriously, Mom. I’m fine. I say stuff all the time that I don’t mean.
    Â 
    So, you lie?
    C’mon, Mom.
    Â 
    . . .
    . . .
    Â 
    Let’s get out of here.
    Huh?
    Â 
    Put on your clothes. Let’s go to the field.
    I don’t feel like it.
    Â 
    That’s a first! C’mon, I’m gonna give you a soccer lesson today.
    Do I have to?
    Â 
    Yes, but clean up this room first.
    . . .

1 on 1
    like lightning
    you strike
    fast and free
    legs zoom
    downfield
    eyes fixed
    on the checkered ball
    on the goal
    ten yards to go
    can’t nobody stop you
    can’t nobody cop you
    till, like a siren in a storm,
    she catches you
    zips past you
    strips the ball
    trips you (fall)
    watching her
    dribble away
    all the while thinking
    it’s bad that you got beat
    by another girl
    and worse
    that the other girl is
    your mother.

This morning
    was just like old times:
    cinnamon French toast,
    Dutch pancakes,
    Ping-Pong.
    Now she’s on
    the pitch
    talking trash
    and you’re feeling
    a little better
    until . . .

Conversation with Mom
    I’ve been calling and calling.
    Been a little busy with—
    Â 
    Sugar balls, Nicky! Too busy to return a call?
    I’m not a kid anymore, Mom. I have a life.
    Â 
    Oh, you have a life, do you?
    Yep.
    Â 
    Does your so-called life involve that little hot mama from dance class?
    Huh?
    Â 
    Oh, really, you’re going to play clueless.
    No, she’s just a friend.
    Â 
    What’s her name?
    April.
    Â 
    That’s pretty. Aren’t you too young to have a girlfriend?
    I don’t have a girlfriend. Plus, I’m almost thirteen.
    Â 
    You’re still my Little Nicky.
    Whatever, Mom. Let’s finish playing.
    Â 
    Yeah, you can use the practice.
    I’m good, actually. I scored two goals in my last game. You’d know that if you were here.
    Â 
    I heard that.
    . . .
    Â 
    Are you giving your father a hard time?
    He’s a jerk.
    Â 
    Be careful—he’s your father. And since when is making you do your chores being a jerk?
    So you two are talking again?
    Â 
    Nicky, he’s doing what he thinks is best for you.
    Making me read the dictionary is best for him, not me.
    Â 
    Your father loves you and he’s—
    Blah blah blah.
    Â 
    Don’t make me