Today I’m reading a novel about these kids

who live in Harlem

and get in some trouble over a science project.

Something about their faraway life and

different kind of problems makes the stuff

happening around here seem like—

I don’t know. Feels like anything can

be kinda okay in the end. Maybe

that’s why I like realistic fiction. Real

problems that real people could have

and the stories not always ending

with some happily ever after. But still

most people seem to end up

okay.

Race Day

Yo, ZJ! It’s race day!

I’m lying in bed watching the snow come down

but jump up quick

when I hear my daddy.

Yo, ZJ! It’s race day!

Throw on my track pants, sneaks and hoodie before I even

brush my teeth.

Used to be me in a jogging stroller, my daddy

pushing me all over Maplewood.

Then me on my scooter, trying to keep up with him.

But now we mostly run together.

And one day a year, we race!

It’s Sunday and this is the year I’ll beat him. I know it.

This is the year, I yell down the stairs to him. You ain’t ready!

Don’t say ain’t, my daddy yells back.

And I already am ready.

You the one up there still getting dressed.

I run down the stairs and he’s standing in the doorway,

bending over to touch his toes,

then stretching his arms up and over.

I stand behind him and do the same thing, bending

left with him

and right with him and

over and up with him.

The two of us, the way we’ve always done.

And then we run!

Down Valley to Baker Street, Baker to Ridgewood Road,

then Cypress with him only a little bit ahead of me and the air leaving my lungs, coming back in cold,

the snow turning to beads

on our faces, mixing in with the sweat.

I can hear my daddy’s own breath coming

hard as we turn at the golf course,

make our way back, and that’s when

I kick a sprint at him, take off

with the air stinging my cheeks,

my smile as wide as anything until I hear him

coming up behind me,

his size fourteen shoes crunching in the snow,

his laughter the soft sound

I’ve always known.

You thought you had me, he says between breaths, and then he’s gone,

kicking dusty snow up and yelling back over his shoulder

One day, ZJ.

But today is not that day!

I keep running, though, because the day feels regular

and regular feels cold and good.

I keep running fast and hard,

just a little bit behind him, already

thinking I’m gonna win this race

next year.

Tackle

One time, me and Ollie were in my yard playing tackle while his mom, Bernadette,

talked with my mom inside.