The Crossover by Kwame Alexander Page B

stomp.
    JB high-fives me, with a familiar look.
    You want to bet, don’t you? I ask.
    Yep,
he says,
    then touches
    my hair.

Ode to My Hair
    If my hair were a tree
    I’d climb it.
    Â 
    I’d kneel down beneath
    and enshrine it.
    Â 
    I’d treat it like gold
    and then mine it.
    Â 
    Each day before school
    I unwind it.
    Â 
    And right before games
    I entwine it.
    Â 
    These locks on my head,
    I designed it.
    Â 
    And one last thing if
    you don’t mind it:
    Â 
    That bet you just made?
    I DECLINE IT.

The Bet, Part Two
    IF. I. LOSE.
    THE. BET.
    YOU. WANT. TO.
    WHAT?
    Â 
    If
the score gets tied,
he says,
and
    if
it comes down to the last shot,
he says,
and
    if
I get the ball,
he says,
and
    if
I don’t miss,
he says,
    I get to cut off
    your hair.
    Â 
    Sure, I say, as serious
    as a heart attack.
    You can cut my locks off,
    but if I win the bet
    you have to walk around
    with no pants on
    and no underwear
    tomorrow
    in school
    during lunch.
    Â 
    Vondie
    and the rest
    of the fellas
    laugh like hyenas.
    Â 
    Not to be outdone,
    JB revises the bet:
    Okay,
he says.
    How about if you lose
    I cut one lock
    and if you win
    I will moon
    that nerdy group
    of sixth-graders
    that sit
    near our table
    at lunch?
    Â 
    Even
though I used to be one of those nerdy sixth-graders,
    even
though I love my hair the way Dad loves Krispy Kreme,
    even
though I don’t want us to lose the game,
    oddsare this is one of JB’s legendary bets I’ll win,
    because
    that’s a lot of
if
s.

The game is tied
    when JB’s soft jumper sails
    tick
    through the air.
    tock
    The crowd stills,
    tick
    mouths drop,
    tock
    and when his last-second shot
    tick
    hits net,
    tock
    the clock stops.
    The gym explodes.
    Its hard bleachers
    empty
    and my head
    aches.

In the locker room
    after the game,
    JB cackles like a crow.
    He walks up to me
    grinning,
    holds his hand out
    so I can see
    the red scissors from Coach’s desk
    smiling at me, their
    steel blades sharp
    and ready.
    Â 
    I love this game
    like the winter loves snow
    even though I spent
    the final quarter
    in foul trouble
    on the bench.
    JB was on fire
    and we won
    and I lost
    the bet.

Cut
    Time to pay up, Filthy,
JB says,
    laughing
    and waving
    the scissors
    in the air
    like a flag.
    My teammates gather around
    to salute.
    FILTHY, FILTHY, FILTHY,
they chant.
    Â 
    He opens the scissors,
    grabs my hair
    to slash a strand.
    Â 
    I don’t hear
    my golden lock
    hit the floor,
    but I do hear
    the sound
    of calamity
    when Vondie
    hollers,
    OH, SNAP!

ca·lam·i·ty
    [ KUH-LAM-IH-TEE ]
noun
    Â 
    An unexpected,
    undesirable event;
    often physically injurious.
    Â 
    As in: If JB hadn’t been acting
    so silly and
    playing around,
    he would have cut
    one lock
    instead of five
    from my head
    and avoided
    this
calamity.
    Â 
    As in: The HUGE bald patch
    on the side
    of my head
    is a dreadful
    calamity.
    Â 
    As in: After the game
    Mom almost has a fit
    When she sees my hair,
    What a calamity,
she says,
    shaking her head
    and telling Dad to take me
    to the barber shop
    on Saturday
    to have the rest
    cut off.

Mom doesn’t like us eating out
    but once a month she lets
    one of us choose a restaurant
    and even though she won’t let him touch
    half the things on the buffet,
    it’s Dad’s turn
    and he chooses Chinese.
    I know what he really wants
    is Pollard’s Chicken and BBQ,
    but Mom has banned
    us from that place.
    Â 
    In the Golden Dragon,
    Mom is still frowning
    at JB for messing up my hair.
    But, Mom, it was an accident,
he says.
    Accident or not, you owe
    your brother an apology,
she tells him.
    Â 
    I’m sorry for cutting your filthy hair, Filthy,
JB laughs.
    Not so funny now, is it? I say, my knuckles
    digging into his scalp
    till Dad saves him from the noogie
    with one of his lame jokes:
    Â 
    Why can’t you play sports in the jungle?
he asks.
    Mom repeats the question because
    Dad won’t continue until