The Crossover

As we’re about to leave for the final game

the phone rings.

Mom shrieks.

I think the worst.

I ask JB if he heard that.

He’s on his bunk

listening to his iPod.

Mom rushes past our room,

out of breath.

JB jumps down

from his bunk.

What’s wrong, Mom? I ask.

She says:

Dad. Had. Another. Attack.

Now. Don’t. Worry.

I’m. Going. Hospital.

See. You. Two. At. Game.

Vroooooommmmmmm.

Her car starts.

JB, what should we do? I ask.

He’s no longer listening to music,

but his tears are loud enough

to dance to.

He laces his sneakers,

runs out of our room.

The garage door opens.

I hear FLOP FLOP FLOP

from the straws

on the spokes

of his bicycle wheels

as he follows Mom

to the hospital.

I hear the clock: TICK TOCK TICK TOCK.

I hear Dad: You should play in the game, son.

A horn blows.

I hear SLAM SLAM SLAM

as I shut the door

of Vondie’s dad’s car.

I hear SCREECH SCREECH SCREECH

as we pull away

from the curb

on our way

to the county championship game.