Ghost Read online

  Coach Turtle Face noticed me and called out, “Kid, what are you doing? Tryouts were last week.”

  I didn’t say nothing, and the coach followed up with, “This is a private practice.”

  I still didn’t respond, and just started scrunching the sleeves of my T-shirt up to my shoulders.

  “Did you hear me?” the coach now asked, a little louder this time. He started walking toward me. The other kids were looking at me like most kids did. Like I was something else. Like I wasn’t one of them. But whatever. “Do you not understand what private means?” the coach jeered. I thought of a funny comeback but kept it to myself.

  “Yeah, man, the track is for runners, not people who want to pretend like they runners,” Lu jabbed, now standing straight. He looked me up and down, then flashed an arrogant grin.

  “Just blow the whistle!” I finally called back to the coach. He stopped in his tracks and glared. Then he looked at Lu before continuing in my direction. He pointed his clipboard at me.

  “Listen, you get one run, hear me? After this, I don’t wanna see you around here no more,” he threatened. “This is serious business, you understand?”

  I gave him the whatever face and nodded. He pointed his stupid clipboard at me again, like I was scared of that. Please. Then, as the coach headed back to the finish line, Lu shook his head at me and growled, “Hope you ready to get smoked.”

  This time I said it. “Whatever,” and gave him my best ice grill to make sure he knew he didn’t scare me. And he didn’t. We were just running, not fighting, so why should I be frightened by some milk-face running boy?

  Now back at the other end of the track, the coach yelled out, “On your mark . . .” Lu dropped down on all fours again. I just put my right foot forward. “Get set . . .” Lu put his butt in the air. I leaned in. Then . . . badeep! I wish I could tell you what I was thinking. But I can’t. I probably wasn’t thinking nothing. Just moving. Man, were my legs going! I pumped and pushed, my ankles loose and wobbly in my sneakers, my jeans stiff and hot, the whole time seeing Lu out the corner of my eye like a white blur. And then it was over. And everybody watching, all the other runners, clapped and hooted, pointing at us both. Some had their mouths open. Others just looked confused. The lady on the other side of the track—not a peep. But all the people around her were standing and cheering.

  Lu walked in circles with his hands on his head, trying to catch his breath, panting, wheezing out, “Who won? Who won, Coach?”

  “I don’t know, son. It was pretty close.” The coach said it like the words were sour in his mouth. I walked back over to my bench, grabbed my backpack, and to keep my part of the deal, headed out. I’d made my point, and it wasn’t like I wanted to be part of their little club. I just needed everybody to know that the fancy, white-black boy wasn’t all that.

  “Kid.” I could hear the coach’s footsteps coming behind me. I was still trying to get my heart to stop trippin’ and my lungs to start working again. “Kid, wait. Wait,” he said, running up beside me. He was wearing those sweatpants, the swishy-swishy kind that make every step sound like paper crumpling. “Who you run for?” he asked. What? Who did I run for? What kind of question was that?

  “I run for me. Who else?” I replied. I stopped walking.

  “No, I mean, what team?”

  “No team.”

  “I see.” He glanced over at the track. “So then, who trained you? Somebody had to train you to be so fast.”

  “Nobody. I just know how to run.”

  “You just know how to run,” he repeated under his breath, followed up by, “Yes. Yes, you do,” also breath-talk. “Look, I don’t know you—what’s your name?”

  “Castle Cranshaw,” I said, then quickly clarified, “But everybody calls me Ghost.” By everybody, I meant nobody except me. That was my self-given nickname. Well, halfway self-given. The night me and Ma busted into Mr. Charles’s store, Mr. Charles looked at us like he was looking at two ghosts. Like he didn’t recognize us, probably because of how scared we both must’ve looked. So I just started calling myself that. Plus it wasn’t the only time someone had looked at me that way. As a matter of fact, this man, the coach, was looking at me the exact same way as Mr. Charles did that night, stunned, and I couldn’t tell if it was because my real name was Castle or because of my nickname.

  “Okay . . . uh . . . Ghost. I’m Coach Brody.” We did a proper handshake. “Listen, like I said, I don’t know you, obviously, but I know you got something special. At least I think you do. So, you wanna join the Defenders and run with us?”

  I didn’t even think about it.

  “Nope.” Just like that.

  “Nope?” Judging by the look on Coach’s face, I could tell nobody said no to running on his team, ever. “What you mean, nope? Why not?”

  All the other runners on the track were cracking jokes and playing around. Everybody but Lu. He was back on the line down on his knees, like he was getting ready to take off again.

  “Because my sport is basketball.”

  “You play ball?” he asked, like he didn’t believe it. Like I didn’t look like I could hoop.

  “Yep.”

  “For who?”

  “Why you keep asking me who I do things for?” I snapped, mainly because I didn’t play ball for nobody. Not yet, at least. But it was still in my plans. Plus, who was he to be all in my business anyway? I didn’t even know him. And he didn’t know me. “Look, even if I wanted to join your team,” I continued, “I would have to ask my mother first, and she’s probably gonna say no, so—”

  “So let me ask her,” he cut in.

  “Why you care? It’s just running,” I said.

  “Is that what you think?” Coach narrowed his eyes. “That this is just running?”

  “Uh . . . yeah. I mean, what else is there? Ready, set, go. Run. The end,” I said like a robot.

  Coach let out a hearty laugh, the kind that sounds fake. Nobody really laughs that hard and that loud without bending over like it hurts. “We’ll get to that,” Coach said, cutting his laugh off instantly. Like I said, fake. “For now, let’s focus on the task at hand. If your mom says it’s cool, will you join?”

  “Man, I told you, I play ball.”

  Coach sized me up, biting down on his bottom lip. “Okay, I’ll tell you what. Basketball’s your sport? Cool. But if you wanna be a better ball player, join this team and you’ll be faster and stronger than anyone on any court. Matter fact, your legs will be so strong you’ll be dunking on people by next year.”

  “You think I’m stupid?” I looked at him sideways. Ain’t no way I could be dunking in a year. I never heard of no eighth graders that can dunk.

  “Depends on what you say next. You are if you don’t let me ask your mom about joining.” Coach was looking at me like he was dead serious. Like he really thought running could help my hops and get me dunking by next year, which if that did happen, I would go right down to the court with Sicko and them and demand to play. I kept checking his face for a sign he was lying, a sign that would’ve been easy to see because he didn’t have any hair to disguise it. But there was no sign. No lie.

  “Man, I’m telling you, she ain’t gonna say yes.”

  “Good enough.” Coach nodded, a sure smirk on his face. “Practice is almost over. Might as well stay, and then I’ll drop you off at home. I’ll talk to her then. Cool?”

  Not cool. Not really. I mean, track? And who was this man? I’ve seen those weird shows where psychos pose like coaches and stuff and get you caught up and the next thing you know my mother’s in jail too for handling this dude. I didn’t trust him. But on the other hand, I didn’t really have anything else to do, or nowhere else to be, so I figured it was worth scoping him out and seeing how he acted around all the other kids and their parents. I mean, I could always use the ride home, but I ain’t no fool.

  After practice was done, everybody met up with the people waiting for them, family and friends or whatever. Coach spent a lot
of time talking to all the moms and dads—mostly moms—especially of the vets. They all acted like they really, really knew each other. Like family. Hugs and all that. And that made me feel a little better about him, because moms don’t trust nobody around their kids. So I agreed on the ride.

  Coach and I walked to his car, which I was surprised to see was a cab.

  “You stole a cab?” I asked, while he cleaned a bunch of stuff off the seat. Food bags, shoes, water bottles, sports drinks. The front of his car was a mess. He threw everything in the back.

  “No,” Coach said, brushing crumbs on the floor so I could finally get in. “What makes you think that?”

  “Because you a coach,” I said, holding my backpack in my lap. “So how you get one?”

  “I coach because I love it. But it don’t pay the rent. Being a cabdriver does.” He started the car.

  “Then why would you love coaching? Seems like if being a cabbie gets you paid, that should be what you love,” I explained what seemed obvious, looking out the window. Coach backed out of the parking space. “Wait,” I said. “You not gonna make me pay for this ride home, are you? Because if you are, you can just let me out and I can walk.”

  “Why would I make—” Coach started, then stopped. Then he sighed. “Just tell me where you live.”

  Where I live. Where I live. When anyone ever asks about where I live, I get weird because people always treat you funny when they find out you stay in a certain kind of neighborhood. But I was used to people treating me funny. When your clothes are two sizes too big, and you got on no-name sneakers, and your mother cuts your hair and it looks like your mother cuts your hair, you get used to people treating you funny. So what’s one more person?

  “Glass Manor,” I said. “You know where that’s at?”

  Coach didn’t blink. “Yeah, I know where that is.”

  We didn’t really say too much in the car. Just zipped from one side of the neighborhood to the other—from the good side to the “other” side. It was my first time ever in a cab. I was used to walking everywhere, unless I was going somewhere with my mom. Then it was on the bus. Coach talked on the phone most of the trip. Judging by what he was saying, what time he’d be home, checking to see if somebody named Tyrone had eaten yet, asking what was for dinner, made me think he was talking to his wife. I wonder what she looked like. Probably not too hot, since she married a man who looked like a chipped-tooth turtle. Coach was saying something about gym shoes to the maybe-wife on the phone when I noticed a woman walking in white scrubs, white sneakers, carrying a black leather purse big enough to fit the whole world in it, and her hair was cut like a boy’s. I tapped Coach on the arm and told him to pull the cab over.

  “Hold on,” he said to the person on the phone. Then to me, “What?”

  “Pull over,” I repeated. “That’s my mother.”

  Coach pulled to the side of the street, and I rolled down the window. “Ma!” I called out, waving to her.

  She looked, then looked again, trying to make sure I was who she thought I was.

  “Cas?” she said, approaching the cab. “What are you doing in a cab? Matter fact, what are you doing in the front seat of a cab? No, answer the first question. What are you doing in a cab?”

  “Hop in,” I said.

  “No, you hop out,” she replied.

  “Ma.”

  “Ma’am.” Coach leaned over so she could see him. “It’s fine. Hop in. I’m just giving him a ride home.” Then he added, “On the house.”

  Coach swiped everything on the backseat to one side as I reached back and opened the door. My mother stood outside the car for what seemed like minutes before deciding to climb in. And even after she did, she kept the door open, one foot still on the sidewalk, so she could jump back out if she needed to. Her bag, which I knew was full of Styrofoam containers of chicken and gravy, or whatever gross but free meal we were going to be having for dinner, crunched on the seat beside her as she finally pulled her leg in and closed the door.

  “How was work?” I asked as Coach pulled back into the street.

  “Cas, don’t ‘how was work’ me. Why are you in a cab? And excuse me, sir, no offense, but who are you?” she asked. Told you. Moms don’t trust nobody around their kids.

  Coach adjusted the rearview mirror so he could see my mother in the back.

  “I’m Coach Brody, but everybody calls me Coach. I run the Defenders city track team.”

  “Uh-huh. And?”

  “And your son came and, uh, sat in on my practice today.” Coach threw a quick glance at me. “Did you know he could run?”

  “Did I know he could run?” She was sitting directly behind me, but I could still feel the heat of her eyes burning through the headrest, scorching the back of my neck.

  “Yeah, he can run. Like, really run.”

  My mother just sort of grunted. I knew better than to say anything, or to even turn around and look back at her. I just said to Coach, “Make this left,” when we got close to my street.

  Coach made the left and continued, “And I think he’s got potential. With the proper coaching, he could be a serious problem.” I felt like I had seen this in every single sports movie I had ever watched. All of them. Ma’am, your son has potential. If this went like the movies, I was either going to score the game-winning touchdown (which is impossible in track) or . . . die.

  “Sir, I appreciate that, but let me tell you something. Cas already is a serious problem,” my mom explained. “And right now, he needs to focus on school, not sports.”

  “Right here,” I murmured to let Coach know where to stop and let us out. I figured there was no reason to drag the conversation out. It went exactly like I thought it would. So I wasn’t really even mad about it. He cut his blinker on, pulled over, and put the car in park.

  “Listen”—Coach turned around to look my mother in the face—“I totally get that. But what if I made you a deal,” he went on. “If he messes up in school, one time, he’s off the team.”

  “One time?!” I squawked.

  “One time.” Coach held his hand out to my mother. I kept my eyes forward until I heard her exhale the breath of a long day.

  “You’re gonna get him home every day?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “What about his homework?”

  “It’ll be done.” He sounded pretty confident for not even knowing me like that.

  Coach gave us both one of his cards. I put mine in my backpack while Ma gazed at hers, making sure everything was legit. Then she let out another big sigh, this time probably the breath of a worried mom.

  “Well, at least I’ll know where he’ll be after school,” she gave in.

  And that was it. Just like that. For the first time in my whole life, I was on a team.

  3

  WORLD RECORD FOR THE MOST ALTERCATIONS

  WHAT DO THEY call criminal records? Not criminal records. They call them something else. Rap sheets? Yeah, that’s it, rap sheets, which is such a dumb name because it makes me think of rap music, like maybe a rap sheet is what rappers write their rhymes down on. But yeah, rap sheets. I got one of those. Not a real one, though, one that real criminals have, nah. I got a school rap sheet, but in school they call it a “file.” I got a file. And even though I’ve never actually seen it, it has to be pretty big, because I’m always being sent down to the principal’s office, or put in detention, or suspended for shutting people down for talking smack. Oh, Castle, why your clothes so big? Why your pants so small? Why your name Castle? Why you always smell like you walked a thousand miles to get here? Why it look like somebody tried to cut your hair with a butter knife? And my response would be . . . well, let’s just use the school-y terms—“not exemplary behavior.” But I’d made a decision that there would be no more entries added to the file. The file would be closed forever, because now my new career in track, which was really my soon-to-be career in basketball, was at stake. All of a sudden I had too much on the line. There would be n
o more “altercations.” That’s the word Principal Marshall always used on the phone with my mother. Altercations.

  And I was altercation free . . . for seventeen hours and two minutes. Two of those hours were spent watching one of those corny, romantic, mushy-mushy movies with my mom. She loves those things, and every night when we’re eating dinner, she sits on our couch in the living room and watches one while opening mail and clipping coupons. I always spread all my blankets out on the floor—three or four to make what Ma calls a pallet—which is where I eventually doze off. She takes the couch. We haven’t slept in our rooms since . . . Dad. It’s too weird for her to try to sleep in the room they slept in, and I got this thing about being as close to the door as possible, just in case we have to get up and run again. Plus, now that I’ve gotten older, I just want to make sure I’m near her in case I gotta protect her.

  So, yeah . . . that was two hours (9:00 p.m.). Then I was sleep for ten hours. I’m grumpy when I don’t get at least eight. Some people would say I’m grumpy even when I do, but they don’t know nothing (7:00 a.m.). Snooze (7:05 a.m.). Snooze (7:10 a.m.). Cas, get your butt up for school. I’m not playing! (7:20 a.m.). Lay there looking around the living room. Up at the light in the ceiling. The glass thing that covers the bulb has dead bugs in it. Under the couch there are toys that I don’t ever remember playing with. Look at the pictures on the wall. Me at nine. And at eight. And at seven when Ma was experimenting with giving me a Mohawk. But no pictures of the family. Then, finally, it was time to get up (8:00 a.m.). Ten minutes spent in the shower, ten minutes getting dressed, and ten minutes eating breakfast—toast with peanut butter and honey (8:30 a.m.). Seventeen minutes walking to school (8:47 a.m.). Homeroom dismissed (9:10 a.m.). Forty-five minutes in English class, where we were reading Lord of the Flies, which, by the way, is a crazy book (10:00 a.m.). Then forty-five minutes in math class, which was basically forty-five minutes of Maureen Thorne raising her hand every single time Mr. Granger asked a question so that she could go up to the board and write the answer. Such a show-off. She’s like the geeky girl version of Lu. So yeah, that happened (10:50 a.m.). And then there was social studies class, which I usually call nap time because we never study nothing social. Like . . . I don’t know, social media. Or social events, like parties. All social studies is is a stupid way to say “history.” It’s like the “rap sheet” of history. Or something like that. Anyway, I would usually snooze through it, but it was a new day and I was turning over a new leaf, so I stayed awake. Didn’t really focus too much on nothing being said, but my eyes were wide open (11:40 a.m.).