Booked

Copyright © 2016 by Kwame Alexander

Educator resources additional content © Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company

Text on page 284 used by permission of HarperCollins Publishers.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information address HarperCollins Children’s Books, a division of HarperCollins Publishers, 195 Broadway, New York, NY 10007.

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Cover photo © 2016 by Steve Gardner

Cover design by Lisa Vega

The Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition as follows:

Names: Alexander, Kwame, author.

Title: Booked / by Kwame Alexander.

Description: Boston : Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, [©2016] |

Summary: Twelve-year-old Nick loves soccer and hates books, but soon learns the power of words as he wrestles with problems at home, stands up to a bully, and tries to impress the girl of his dreams.

Identifiers: LCCN 2015033312

Subjects: | CYAC: Novels in verse. | Soccer—Fiction. | Books—Fiction. | Reading—Fiction. | Self-esteem—Fiction.

BISAC: JUVENILE FICTION / Stories in Verse. | JUVENILE FICTION / Sports & Recreation / Soccer. | JUVENILE FICTION / Family / General (see also headings under Social Issues). | JUVENILE FICTION / People & Places / United States / African American.

Classification: LCC PZ7.5.A44 Bo 2016 | DDC [Fic]—dc23

LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2015033312

ISBN 978-0-544-57098-6 hardcover

ISBN 978-1-328-59630-7 paperback

eISBN 978-0-544-78771-1

v6.0921

For Lynne, Stacey, Mary Ann, John, and Deborah,

some of the coolest librarians and teachers on the planet;

and to the best English teacher I never had:

Joanna Fox, the real dragonfly lady.

Gameplay

on the pitch, lightning faSt,

dribble, fake, then make a dash

player tries tO steal the ball

lift and step and make him fall

zip and zoom to find the spot

defense readies for the shot

Chip, then kick it in the air

take off like a Belgian hare

shoot it left, but watch it Curve

all he can do is observe

watch the ball bEnd in midflight

play this game faR into night.

Wake Up Call

After playing FIFA

online with Coby

till one thirty a.m.

last night,

you wake

this morning

to the sound

of Mom arguing

on the phone

with Dad.

Questions

Did you make up your bed?

Yeah. Can you put bananas in my pancakes, please?

Did you finish your homework?

Yeah. Can we play a quick game of Ping-Pong, Mom?

And what about the reading. I didn’t see you doing that yesterday.

Mom, Dad’s not even here.

Just because your father’s away doesn’t mean you can avoid your chores.

I barely have time for my real chores.

Perhaps you should spend less time playing Xbox at all hours of the night.

Huh?

Oh, you think I didn’t know?

I’m sick of reading his stupid words, Mom. I’m going to high school next year and I shouldn’t have to keep doing this.

Why couldn’t your dad

be a musician

like Jimmy Leon’s dad

or own an oil company

like Coby’s?

Better yet, why couldn’t

he be a cool detective

driving

a sleek silver

convertible sports car

like Will Smith

in Bad Boys?

Instead, your dad’s

a linguistics professor

with chronic verbomania*

as evidenced

by the fact

that he actually wrote

a dictionary

called Weird and Wonderful Words

with,

get this,

footnotes.

In the elementary school spelling bee

when you intentionally

misspelled heifer,

he almost had a cow.

You’re the only kid

on your block

at school

in THE. ENTIRE. FREAKIN’. WORLD.

who lives in a prison

of words.

He calls it the pursuit of excellence.

You call it Shawshank.

And even though your mother

forbids you to say it,

the truth is

you

HATE

words.

Giddy-up

she hollers,

SMASHING the ball

to the edge

of the right corner

of the table

with so much force,

it sends you diving

into the laundry stack,

trying and failing

to lob it back.

Loser does the dishes tonight.

You can’t say that now, Mom. It’s game point.

She drops a shot

right over the net

that you can’t get to.

You’re a one-trick pony, young boy.

Stick to soccer, she jokes, then

headlocks you,

hits you on the backside

with her paddle,

and soaks your forehead

in kisses

after beating you

for the fourth game

in a row.

Mom

used to race horses,

but now she only trains them.

Correction: she used to

train them,

which was pretty awesome,

especially when you

got to cowboy

around the neighborhood

or watch

the Preakness

from luxury box seats

with unlimited Coke and shrimp.

But she doesn’t do it anymore

since there are no horses

in the city.

Last year,

she did get asked

to train

a horse named

Bite My Dust,

but when she revealed

that we’d have to move

to some small town

with no university

(or travel soccer team),

Dad said No

with a capital N.

Blackjack on the Way to School

With two sevens showing, you

say, Hit me! Coby curses

when you get a third. BLACKJACK!

Ms. Hardwick’s Honors English class

is one boring

required read

after another.

So you’ve become a pro

at daydreaming

while pretend-listening.

The Beautiful Game

You’re pumped.

The match is tied

at the end

of extra time.

Players gather

at center circle

for the coin toss.

You call tails

and win.

Real Madrid scores

the first goal.

Ours bounces

off the left post.

They make

the next two

in a row.

We make three.

They miss

their final two.

It’s 3–3.

Your turn

to rev the engine,

turn on the jets.

Score, and you win.

Teammates

lock arms

for the final kick.

The crowd roars,

screams your name:

NICK HALL! NICK HALL! NICK HALL!

Like a greyhound

coursing game,

you take off

from twelve yards out,

winding

for the kill.

But right before

the winning kick

of your Barcelona debut,

Ms. Hardwick

streaks

across the field

in her heels and

purple polyester dress

yelling:

NICHOLAS HALL,

PAY

ATTENTION!

The thing about daydreaming

in class

is you forget

what was happening

just before ninety thousand fans

started CHEERING you

to victory.

So everything blurs

when your best friend whispers

from behind,

She’s talking to you, bro,

and your teacher SLAMS

you with a question

that makes no sense:

The expression to nip something in the bud

is an example of what, Nicholas?

Uh, to nip it in the butt

is an example of

how to get slapped by a girl, you reply,

as confused

as a chameleon

in a bag

of gummy worms,

which sends

almost everyone

in class

into fits

of contagious snickering.

Everyone except

Ms. Hardwick.

Busted

Nicholas, I’ve warned you

about not paying attention

in my class.

This is your final warning.

Next time, it’s down to the office.

Now, can anyone answer

the question correctly?

I can, I can, Ms. Hardwick, says Winnifred,

the teacher’s pet (and a pain in the class).

What is the correct phrase, Winnifred?

Nip it in the bud, not butt, Ms. Hardwick, she answers, then adds,

Sorta like when you prune a flower

in the budding stage, to keep it from growing.

Then she rolls her eyes. In your direction.

Precisely. It is a metaphor

for dealing with a problem

when it is still small

and before it grows

into something LARGER, Ms. Hardwick says,

looking dead at you.

Ironically, Nicholas, by not paying attention,

you have stumbled upon another literary device

called a malapropism.* Do you know what it means?

And of course you do, but before