Garvey's Choice Read online

  Text copyright © 2016 by Nikki Grimes

  All rights reserved.

  For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book,

  contact [email protected].

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and

  incidents are products of the author’s imagination

  or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events,

  locales, or persons, living or dead,

  is entirely coincidental.

  WordSong

  An Imprint of Highlights

  815 Church Street

  Honesdale, Pennsylvania 18431

  Printed in the United States of America

  ISBN: 978-1-62979-740-3 (hc)

  ISBN: 978-1-62979-747-2 (e-book)

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2016932155

  First hardcover edition, 2016

  First e-book edition, 2016

  The text of this book is set in Bembo.

  H1.1

  Design by Barbara Grzeslo

  Production by Sue Cole

  For Deborah Taylor

  and all librarians

  who labor on behalf of

  our children

  CONTENTS

  It Figures

  Origami

  Angie

  Summer Lost and Found

  Stars

  Sci-Fi Novel

  Mom Speaks

  Antidote

  Rhymes with Harvey

  Unique

  Portrait

  Perfect

  Joe

  Best Friend

  Knock-Knock

  Me and Joe

  Alien

  Tuesday

  Phone Call

  Dance with My Father

  Saturday Play

  In the Next Room

  Sunday Dinner

  September

  Checkmate

  Dressing for School

  Day One

  Too-Skinny-for-Words

  Day Two

  Foiled

  Second Period

  Short Week

  Dinner

  Drop In

  Shoulder-Pad Season

  Late-Night Snack

  Shadow

  Diet

  Stealthy Dresser

  Secret

  Fun Run

  Limits

  A Slice of Truth

  Photo Album

  Luther’s Sad Song, Again

  Morning Classes

  Who Says?

  Second Thoughts

  Fear

  Turtle

  Busted

  Shift

  Getting in the Groove

  Garvey’s Choice

  Lighter than Air

  Pact

  First Warm-Ups

  Chorus Calamity

  Emmanuel

  Saturday Catch-up

  It’s Manny, Now

  No Words Needed

  Careful, Now

  Eliana

  Where’d That Come From?

  Advice

  His Words

  Come to Think of It

  Name Game

  Perks

  Weekend Wonder: Manny’s Spicy Portobello Burger Supreme

  Rehearsal

  Three Bears

  Natasha Bedingfield Sings My Song

  When I Sing

  A Spoonful of Song

  High School Half Day

  Announcement

  Manny’s Turn to be Brave

  Practice

  Word Web

  Preparation

  Scales

  The Change Bell

  Insult

  Good Company

  Facing the Mirror

  Assembly

  Let Down

  Thanks for the Push

  Aftermath

  New Fan

  Compliments

  Less than Perfect

  Introductions

  Too Soon Good-bye

  On the Move

  Spring Thaw

  Colors

  Turn Around

  Now It’s My Turn

  First Contact

  The Talk

  Summer Duet

  Tanka

  Acknowledgments

  IT FIGURES

  When I was seven

  and crazy for Mr. Spock,

  a Star Trek lunch box

  was all I craved. Instead, Dad

  bought one blaring the logo

  of some football team

  I’d never even heard of.

  I shoved that thing in

  the coal black of my closet,

  then celebrated with cake.

  ORIGAMI

  Mom’s got a talent

  for origami, but she

  can’t fold me into

  the jock Dad wants me to be.

  At least, she knows not to try.

  ANGIE

  Angie’s the athlete.

  Why should I compete with her?

  “Why can’t Garvey be

  like his sister?” I heard Dad

  ask when I was eight. Mom said,

  “That’s the wrong question.

  Ask Garvey what interests him.

  Talk to him, honey.”

  Yeah, Dad, I thought. Talk to me.

  But will he? I wish I knew.

  SUMMER LOST AND FOUND

  Stories are breadcrumbs.

  Just follow the trail of books

  and you will find me

  lost among the galaxies

  of scorched stars and ships to Mars.

  STARS

  Stars on my ceiling

  wink at me when the full moon

  comes for a visit.

  I might return the favor

  someday, at least in my dreams.

  For now, I strap on

  chapter four of Mars Rescue,

  study the console,

  then ease back on the throttle

  for a smooth flight through star fields.

  SCI-FI NOVEL

  On page 59,

  I meet two red Martian Trills

  and feel a sweet chill

  ripple through me, till Dad says,

  “Football would do you better.”

  Where did he come from?

  The sudden slap of words sends

  my Trills scattering.

  I snarl and pound my pillow.

  It’s too late to slam the door.

  MOM SPEAKS

  Later, Mom asks him,

  “Why don’t you let Garvey be?”

  I hear Dad snort. Twice.

  “Why can’t he put those books down,

  play football or basketball?”

  “Garvey likes to read.

  When was that not a good thing?”

  “Thanks, Mom,” I whisper.

  “You’re right,” says Dad. “But reading

  doesn’t build muscles, does it?

  When I was his age,

  my pop and I always played.

  We roughhoused like, well—normal.”

  I go downstairs, grab a Coke,

  wash down Dad’s disappointment.

  ANTIDOTE

  Dinner-table talk

  is magically washed away

  on a sea of song

  the minute I clamp on my

  trusty earphones and push PLAY.

  RHYMES WITH HARVEY

  Some people wonder:

  Why Garvey? Why not Marcus?

  So I asked my dad.

  “Lots of boys named Marcus, son.

  Garvey? That’s one of a kind.”

  UNIQUE

  How good is different?

  I search stories for someone

  who resembles me.

&nb
sp; If it weren’t for books and Joe,

  “different” would just be lonely.

  PORTRAIT

  In Angela’s eyes,

  I’m little baby brother.

  I tell her, “You’re not

  as much older as you think.”

  She spatters me with laughter.

  PERFECT

  Mom says I’m perfect.

  Dad says I’m football-ready,

  whatever that means.

  Angela calls me Sweet Chunk.

  “But I still love you,” she says.

  JOE

  Joe caught me dancing

  in first grade, during recess,

  out back by the slide,

  alone—or so I thought, till

  Joe showed up and joined right in.

  Seems funny now, ’cause

  there was no music playing

  and neither of us

  minded or needed any.

  We were our own melody.

  We went back to class,

  each waiting for the other

  to spill his secret

  for a laugh. But we didn’t.

  That’s how we knew we’d be friends.

  BEST FRIEND

  I like Joe’s Garvey:

  clever on the pitcher’s mound,

  wicked-smart in math,

  number one at knock-knock jokes.

  Do friends make better mirrors?

  KNOCK-KNOCK

  Here’s Joe’s knock-knock joke:

  Joe: “Knock, knock.” I say, “Who’s there?”

  “Orange.” “Orange who?”

  “Orange you going to ask

  me in?” I laugh every time.

  Mine’s better: “Knock, knock.”

  “Who’s there?” “Orange.” “Orange who?”

  “Wait. Knock, knock.” “Who’s there?”

  “Banana.” “Banana who?”

  “Orange you dying to know!”

  ME AND JOE

  With window cracked wide,

  we telescope the night sky

  trailing Orion,

  dreaming of supernovas,

  mapping the stars for hours.

  ALIEN

  Over breakfast, Dad

  eyes me like an alien

  never seen before.

  Sometimes, I could swear that he’s

  hoping to make first contact.

  TUESDAY

  Excitement beaming

  from Dad’s face, he bounces in,

  palms a basketball.

  “Look what I got for you, son!

  Want to go work up a sweat?”

  Who’s he talking to?

  After all these years, you’d think

  he’d start to know me.

  Will he ever stop trying

  to make me someone I’m not?

  PHONE CALL

  All evening long, I

  try tucking in my sadness,

  but it keeps getting

  snagged on my voice when I speak.

  Joe catches it when he calls.

  “Hey! What’s up?” Joe asks.

  Should I tell him? “Nothing you

  haven’t heard before.

  I wish my dad could see me.

  That sounds crazy, huh?”

  “Not really,” says Joe.

  “I get it. Seriously.

  But you’ve got a dad.

  Mine skipped out long time ago.”

  Why’d I open my big mouth?

  Joe shrugs off his hurt.

  “Knock, knock!” he says. “Not now, Joe.”

  “Come on, man! Knock, knock.”

  I give in. “Who’s there?” “Your friend,

  Joe, who’s always here for you.”

  DANCE WITH MY FATHER

  “Dance with My Father”

  spins on the CD player

  on my dad’s nightstand.

  The words seep into me, then

  leave my cheeks wet and salty.

  SATURDAY PLAY

  Soccer games display

  Angela’s acrobatics

  out on the field, but

  there’s another game she plays

  that we both call Distraction,

  and it goes like this:

  Dad juggles his ball like a

  hot potato, asks,

  “Who’s up for running passes?”

  Angela always rises.

  “I could probably

  use some extra exercise.”

  She winks at me—sign

  of our conspiracy. Score!

  I slip away, unnoticed.

  IN THE NEXT ROOM

  Mom gets her chess set,

  teaches me about

  bishops, knights, pawns, then

  says, “Football is fine, but this

  is exercise for your brain!”

  SUNDAY DINNER

  Joe and I stretch the

  afternoon practicing chess

  long enough to skip

  potato-peeling duty.

  We save our strength for eating

  and being grateful

  for roast chicken (at my house)

  and glazed ham (at his)

  plus mashed potatoes that make

  our mouths two caverns of joy.

  An extra helping

  of Mom’s famous peach cobbler

  earns me a death glare

  from guess who? “I’ve worked it out,”

  says Dad. “Garvey stuffs himself

  so he’s too slow to

  run passes with his old man.”

  “Sure, Dad. Whatever.”

  That’s all kinds of crazy, right?

  Maybe I just love cobbler.

  SEPTEMBER

  I’m on school countdown.

  Bring it on! More days with Joe

  and fewer with Dad

  who’s still mad I didn’t spend break

  practicing serpentine runs.

  CHECKMATE

  Turns out, Mom was right.

  My brain’s beginning to bulge

  with brand new muscles.

  From now on, for Joe and me,

  it’s chess—and astronomy.

  DRESSING FOR SCHOOL

  I lace up new kicks,

  smile showing up like hope till

  ugly whispers from

  last year echo in memory,

  scraping that smile from my lips.

  DAY ONE

  I’m armed with earphones—

  a perfect solution, till

  Principal tells me

  school rules won’t allow them. So,

  here I go, nervous, naked.

  TOO-SKINNY-FOR-WORDS

  Too-skinny-for-words

  bumps into me on purpose.

  “Oops!” he says. “Sorry.

  It’s kinda hard to squeeze by

  since you take up so much space.”

  Under the stairwell,

  I take a beat, close my eyes,

  and hum loud enough

  to drown the ordinary

  sound of meanness flung my way.

  DAY TWO

  My mirror throws back

  reflections of a round boy

  whose face looks like mine.

  Who is he? And how have I

  disappeared inside his skin?

  I search through my shirts

  for tan, brown, grey—colors that

  can help me sneak past

  any rough wall of words I’m

  at risk of slamming into.

  FOILED

  I need a new plan.

  Some dumb kid named Todd

  tried to be hilarious.

  “Hey, Garvey! See you A-Round.

  Get it? A-Round!” Sheesh. Really?

  SECOND PERIOD

  I glare at the stairs,

  bare my teeth, and start the climb.

  Breathless in ten steps,

  I’m late to science, again.

  I’ve come to hate the change bell.
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  SHORT WEEK

  Labor Day saved me.

  Seriously. If this week

  were one day longer,

  I’d find a patch of earth and

  pull it up over my head.

  DINNER

  My tongue does a dance

  when Mom’s spicy lasagna

  is passed round to me.

  “Leave us some, little piggy,”

  says Angela with a grin.

  Not every cut bleeds,

  so maybe Sis doesn’t know

  how deep the wound goes.

  A second heaping serving’s

  not enough to heal my hurt.

  In between big bites,

  I hum to the jazz playing

  on the radio,

  the melody soothing me,

  wherever words left splinters.

  DROP IN

  Joe drops by for our

  weekly game of chess, where we

  babble on about

  nothing in particular,

  which can feel pretty perfect.

  SHOULDER-PAD SEASON

  The family gathers

  for the first weekly huddle,

  minus me. So what?

  By kickoff, I’m knee-deep in

  learning how to wrinkle time.

  LATE-NIGHT SNACK

  My candy stash gone,

  the refrigerator howls

  to my hollow stomach, “Come!”

  On my way to the kitchen,

  I catch Dad, eyes closed, humming.

  I can’t remember

  the last time I heard Dad hum.

  His voice shakes the ground,

  deep as thunder. Not like mine.

  Just one more way we’re different.

  SHADOW

  My mom, dad, and sis

  could fit inside my shadow

  and—poof—disappear.