Nikki Grimes - Between the Lines

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Grimes, Nikki, author. Title: Between the lines / Nikki Grimes. Description: New York, NY : Nancy Paulsen Books, [2018] Summary: A group of high school students grow in understanding of each others challenges and forge unexpected connections as they prepare for a boys vs. girls poetry slam. Includes authors note about foster home care. paper) Subjects: | CYAC: PoetryFiction. | AuthorshipFiction. | Interpersonal relationsFiction. | High schoolsFiction. | SchoolsFiction. | Family lifeFiction. | Poetry slamsFiction. | Poetry slamsFiction.

Classification: LCC PZ7.G88429 Bet 2018 | DDC [Fic]dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017025067 Ebook ISBN 9780525517177 Design by Marikka Tamura. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Jacket photo 2018 by Michael Frost Cover design by Kelley Brady Version_1 For Jacob Bruch, who never gave up waiting for a sequel, and for Kendall Buchanan, my brother. PROLOGUE I check out Mr. Wards classroom early, find dark walls covered with poetry hanging in picture frames bright as jelly beans.Who wrote all these poems? And where exactly does Open Mike Friday take place?My eyes travel the room until I notice a low stage, off to the side.

Its not very big, but theres a spotlight hanging overhead, and in the center of the stage is a microphone just begging for somebody to grab it. Me? Im a newspaperman. What am I even doing here?I look back over the last week, trace the thinking that brought me to this class.Like every other day, a week ago started off with breakfast.DARRIAN LOPEZ BREAKFAST ON THE BOUNCE FOR FATHER AND SON Perfecto! If I was writing a story about this morning, that would be my headline. I drop two waffles into the toaster, smiling to myself. Papi looks up from El Diario, wondering why. I shake my head, sorry hes reading the wrong paper.

For me, its the New York Times. The old man is cool otherwise, though, driving a city bus double shifts sometimes just so he can keep replacing the clothes I grow out of. He doesnt say much, but he loves me enough for two. I wash one waffle down with milk, grab the other for the road, and head out of the door. Later, Papi. On the way to school, I run into Zeke and Shorty, guys from my neighborhood.

As usual, theyre talking smack. You watch, Shorty, spouts Zeke. Im gonna be the biggest thing in hip-hop since Heavy D. What you been smokin? counters Shorty. You cant even sing! But me? I got serious moves on the court, plan on bein the next Kobe Bryant. Look out! They laugh to take the edge off of dreaming bigger than they believe.

I keep my dreams to myself. I dont need their laughter. Besides, I have to pay attention to these cracked sidewalks so I dont trip or step on broken whiskey bottles or the dirty syringes that turn up everywhere. So, what you plan on doing to get your Black ass outta the Bronx? Zeke asks me. You mean my Puerto Rican ass. Ive told Zeke a million times, Im not Black.

Quit lying! You Black. You just got an accent, he says every time. And every time, I shake my head. For the record, my mothers not Black. My fathers not Black. Not. Black. Black.

We are puertorriqueo. Boricuas. From the island. But what the hell. Black and Brown people all get treated the same, anyway. I look at Zeke and shrug, then jog ahead, disappearing around the corner. BROWN BOY BETRAYS RACE Thats what theyd say if they knew I planned on writing for the New York Times.

Lets face it, some of those papers got a bad habit of getting Black and Brown stories wrong. We all know it. But I figure the only way to get our stories straight is by writing them ourselves. So Ill get in there, show them how its done. Yeah. Only, Im not sure how exactly to get started.

I whip out my notebook, flip past the last local news story I wrote, and scribble: See Mr. Winston for help. Writing my plans down makes them feel solid. I smile all the rest of the way to school. Lunch bell rings just in time. Stomachs growling loud enough to wake the dead. I jump up, head for the door.

The Times lying unfolded on the teachers desk stops me cold. Mr. Klein? I ask. Can I borrow your paper over lunch? I promise not to get mustard on it. No problem, he says. Im done with it, anyway.

I scoop up the paper and tuck it under my arm. TEACHERS CASUAL KINDNESS REMEMBERED The Times is like my bible: If it says something, it must be true. You cant say that about too many papers these days. Seems like half of what gets printed is based on outright lies. Im all about truth, though, so I figure the Times and me are a good fit. I hit my locker, grab my sandwich, and sprint to the yard so I can read without interruption.

I find a quiet spot, unwrap my sandwich, unfold my paper, and gobble up both before the bell rings. Home. Ready to chow down on anything I can find. I dump cap, jacket, backpack in a sloppy trail on my way to the kitchen and plant my face in a bowl of cold cereal. I dont even hear Papi coming in early. Darrian! he barks.

Whats your stuff doing all over the floor? You know better. Thorry, I manage, mouth full of flakes. Papi must not be too mad. He goes quiet in there. But just in case, I swallow fast and pop into the living room to clear my mess. Papis in the middle of the floor, flipping through my news stories.

He looks up when he hears me. Qu es esto? he asks, waving the notebook at me. Some new kind of homework? My ledger of headlines and neighborhood features is hard to explain. Not homework, I whisper. Just... for practice. Por qu? I clear my throat, ball my fists, ready for the laughter Im afraid of. Por qu? I clear my throat, ball my fists, ready for the laughter Im afraid of.

Practice for being a reporter at the New York Times. I grit my teeth, wait for it. Papi grunts, hands me the evidence of my crime. Go on, hijo. Pick your stuff up. Thats it. Thats it.

Thats all he says. I breathe, forgetting all about being hungry. Later, I flop on my bed, bury my head under a pillow. Now Ive gone and done it, said out loud what I want to do, to be. But how do I get there from here? Where do I start? First thing in the morning, my questions carry me to the library to see Mr. Winston.