The Whispers

by Greg Howard

  Gary scrunches up his face. “Okay. But you better not try to kiss me.”

  My whole face goes hot and my heart thumps hard in my chest. I actually take a step back, like he just farted or something.

  “What?” The classroom fills with noise and shuffling bodies. I glance around to make sure no one heard him. “Why would you say such a feckless thing?”

  Feckless is when your best friend says something super dumb without thinking that other people might hear him.

  Gary shrugs like he understands the word feckless. I can’t believe he knows the exact dictionary definition like I do. Maybe I just used the word so well in my sentence that Gary understood its meaning. Mama says that’s the whole point of the word-of-the-day game.

  “People meet behind the mobile units to smoke and kiss,” Gary says, lowering his voice. “And you don’t smoke. Jesus, dude, it was a joke. Chill out.”

  I shoot him a glare. “I said by, not behind.”

  I take a desk in the back row, still a little shaken by his feckless comment. Gary knows better. But maybe he didn’t mean anything by it and I’m just overreacting. Daddy says I do that sometimes.

  Gary squeezes into the desk to my right. We both eye Mrs. Turner with caution because she’s a real stickler about starting class precisely when the late bell rings. I wouldn’t call Mrs. Turner mean, but as Gary says, she don’t play. Mrs. Turner is strict and doesn’t smile hardly ever, but she’s still the prettiest teacher at school. She looks like Cassandra Bailey on DC Fixer, who wears those long white coats and walks real fast with her whole body swinging every which-a-way. She fixes everyone’s problems in Washington, even the president’s. Cassandra Bailey don’t play either.

  Gary’s a favorite target of Mrs. Turner and usually for good reason. He says she’s just hard on him because she’s all the way black and he’s only part the way black. But I don’t think Mrs. Turner gives a crap what color Gary’s skin is. He just gives her a lot to work with. But I understand why Gary might think that. He’s been picked on a lot over the years for being mixed, and he says he doesn’t feel like he fits in with either the black kids or the white kids. It’s kind of how we became friends.

  When I got to first grade at Buckingham Elementary, I had never seen so many other boys in one place at one time. And I liked just about every one of them I saw. White, black, brown—it didn’t matter. I wanted to kiss them all. That was before I knew how the world works. It’s not a good idea to try to kiss every boy you run into at the coat cubby when you’re hanging up your Wonder Woman backpack. I learned that the hard way. About the kissing and the Wonder Woman backpack. People started calling me not-so-nice names. I was too young to really pay attention to the sermons at North Creek Church of God back then, so I really didn’t know I was doing anything sinful.

  Around the same time, Gary was getting a lot of questions from the other kids about his parents, and he didn’t know any better than to just tell them the straight-up truth. So we both got picked on a lot those first couple of years at Buckingham Elementary. Nobody wanted to play with us at recess, so we ended up hanging out together. It was Gary who told me that maybe I shouldn’t try to kiss other boys behind the coat cubby. Even though I’d never tried to kiss him, he’d heard about it. Apparently everyone had.

  In third grade, Gary told me maybe it was time to trade in my Wonder Woman backpack for a Captain America or a Black Panther one. Those two pieces of advice made the rest of my life at Buckingham Elementary much easier, and I’ll always be grateful to Gary for that.

  Gary leans over and whispers to me before Mrs. Turner turns around to face the class. “What did you want to talk about at recess?”

  “Going camping,” I whisper back. The late bell rings and I look up. Mrs. Turner turns on her heel, plants a hand on her hip, and settles a steely gaze on the class—daring anyone to trespass on her time, just like the DC Fixer would. I gamble with my life on one more whispered message over to Gary.

  “This weekend.”

  And for a second, I think about asking Mama to take me to the Walmart in Upton to get snacks for our camping trip because they have a much bigger selection than Mr. Killen’s Market. Just for a second, though.

  Then I remember that I can’t.

  7

  MY OWN PERSONAL REDNECK SUPERHERO

  I stand with my hands shoved deep inside my pockets and stare out over the dusty courtyard during recess. The grass has been completely worn away by the back and forth shuffling of middle school feet, and the school district can’t be bothered to plant any shrubs for the poor country students. The same clumps of kids stand on their same clumps of grass, while others walk the length of the courtyard and back again like they’re strolling through Central Park in New York City.

  We sixth graders are the most disorganized bunch, wandering here and there and not really knowing our place. We haven’t even separated ourselves by race yet like the older kids—although that’ll never happen to Gary and me. The sixth graders are still changing over from actually playing at recess, like we did at Buckingham Elementary, to standing around talking, which seems to be the standard recess activity in middle school. The seventh and eighth graders are real pros at it. From what I can tell, and what I’ve seen on CID: Chicago, it’s like learning your place in a prison yard—knowing who to stick close to, who to stay away from, and who to avoid eye contact with.

  I look over at Gary, leaning against the side of the mobile classroom. His belly sticks out like a human turnstile blocking entry to the private spot from intruders. I’m not sure of the best way to casually bring up magical wood creatures in regular recess conversation, so I just plow right in.

  “Have you ever heard of the Whispers?”

  He tears his gaze away from Rebecca Johnson, who stands with a group of girls across the courtyard, and cocks his head at me. “The what?”

  “The Whispers,” I say. “You know the story?”

  Gary shakes his head. “Sorry. No idea what you’re talking about, dawg. And what does it have to do with camping this weekend? I can bring hot dogs and buns. You get the snacks. I’ll try to ditch Carl, but you know how my mom is.”

  He’s going to think I’m crazy. Everyone else does. Maybe I am.

  “It’s this story my mama’s told me since I was little,” I say.

  Gary lowers his head at the mention of Mama. It’s a common response at school whenever I talk about her or bring up the investigation. It started soon after the abduction when I gave a show-and-tell presentation in Miss Diaz’s social studies class on Mama’s case and the police’s progress (or lack of progress) in finding her. It was a big hit. The whole class stared at me in wonder. I had them in the palm of my hand—you could have heard a pin drop. Miss Diaz was so impressed by my presentation that she called Daddy to tell him all about it. He wasn’t too thrilled, though. Neither was Frank.

  I guess I overstepped the bounds of police procedure by discussing the case in public or something. Frank later told me maybe I shouldn’t share any of my personal theories about what happened to Mama to anyone other than him and my family. He said it could impede their progress. It all felt very official. Like Frank really did care about finding Mama and that I had almost botched the case. But I don’t think it was an official police gag order or anything. I doubt Frank has that kind of authority. Besides, I’m the star witness, so as much as Frank doesn’t like it, I can say whatever I want. I think it keeps the police on their toes.

  I give Gary the abridged version of the story of the Whispers.

  Abridged is when you leave some stuff out of a story to make it shorter because your best friend has a hard time concentrating and can’t follow regular-length stories.

  When that word came up on my word-of-the-day calendar, I think back in March, and Mama told me to use it in a sentence, I said, “Grandma’s favorite song is ‘Abridged Over Troubled Waters.’” I th
ought that was a pretty good joke and it made Mama laugh real hard.

  I can tell by his wrinkled face that Gary’s not following me. I didn’t really do the story justice the way Mama does.

  “Wait, so they’re like magic birds, or flying fairies, or what?” he says when I reach the end.

  “I don’t know what they are exactly,” I say honestly. “But I think they can help me find my mama.”

  Gary gives me the side-eye and then does the head lowering thing again. “It’s been how long now? Four months? You still think she’s coming back, dawg?”

  Before I can answer, the worst human person in the history of human persons appears in front of us like he was conjured out of thin air. And conjured would be the perfect word to describe the sudden appearance of the Voldemort of Buckingham Middle School. Apparently Gene Grimes and his posse of supercharged puberty mutants, Chad Wells and Jack Toomey, were hanging out behind the mobile unit, probably smoking. And listening.

  “What was that about finding your mommy?” Gene says with that sneer most of the seventh graders have when they talk to sixth graders. “And fairies?”

  Gene, Chad, and Jack snicker and play-punch each other in the arm like idiots. Danny would fit right in with these losers. Gary rolls his eyes but keeps his mouth shut. Gene stands a good foot and a half taller than both of us. It’s a known fact around school that he works out. He has actual biceps, which he shows off by rolling the sleeves of his polo shirts up over his shoulders at recess all the time, even on days when it’s not very hot out, like today. Chad and Jack have biceps too, or at least the beginnings of biceps. And supposedly they all drink beer and smoke cigarettes after school every day, so they’re going to hell anyway. They’ll have all of eternity to work out there. That’s what the preacher at the North Creek Church of God says about drunks and fornicators. Unless they repent, hell is in their future.

  Repenting is when you’re super sorry about something and promise Jesus you’ll never do it again, even though you know you probably will.

  As in, Gene Grimes doesn’t seem like the repenting sort, so you know, hell-bound.

  “Your mommy’s gone, turd breath,” Gene says, hocking a loogie on the ground in front of me. “And there’s only one fairy around here.”

  He pokes me in the chest with his index finger, just to make sure I understand what he’s saying. I do. My cheeks heat instantly. That’s the second mention today of my other condition. I’m beginning to wonder if someone put a sign on my back when I got off the bus this morning.

  “The police are still looking for her,” I say weakly.

  Gene curses under his breath and gets in my face so my nose fills up with his skanky breath. Definitely smoking. “Well, why don’t you just tell them where she is, you wack-job?”

  My breath catches in my throat and I clench my teeth so hard they just might break off in my mouth. I don’t know if I’m more angry or shocked. I know Frank has his suspicions about me, that’s becoming pretty clear. And maybe even Daddy does too. But do people at school think I had something to do with Mama’s disappearance?

  Gene starts making a lot of wild and crazy accusations about what happened to Mama, like he’s Detective Chase Cooper or something, so I tune him out. Internal Charlie Brown teacher translator activated.

  . . . wah waah wah wah, waah wah waah . . .

  As Gene blathers on, the only two things I can think to do to shut him up are to punch him or vomit on him. I’ve never thrown a punch in my life, so Gene’s pretty safe there. But I’ve vomited a lot in my life. I’m kind of a pro at it. I look over at Gary for help but he just stands there with his head down, no doubt hoping Gene will keep his psycho-ness directed at me. Thanks a lot, buddy.

  “Leave him alone.” A voice—loud, clear, and deep—comes from behind Gene, sounding not like Charlie Brown’s teacher at all, but like the voice of Jesus. Or Superman.

  I peer over Gene’s shoulder and I’m instantly filled with hope, relief, and a stomach full of butterflies—but not the vomiting kind. Gene steps back and turns to face Dylan Mathews. They’re roughly the same size, but Dylan came by his muscles honestly—working his family’s farm and tending their cornfield behind our house. He’s wearing a red Peterbilt ball cap, faded jeans with worn holes in the knees, and a blue T-shirt with Captain America’s shield on the front. So not exactly Superman, but still like my own personal redneck superhero. My face flushes hot because my other condition usually acts up whenever Dylan is around.

  Gene scowls at Dylan, but that’s about it. Dylan is in the eighth grade. Top of the middle school food chain. Gene knows his place. Besides, nobody messes with Dylan Mathews. Too mysterious. Too unpredictable. He was held back a year, so he’s the oldest kid at BMS. I don’t think he even has any friends, because he’s always alone.

  Gene looks back at me and hocks another loogie on the ground about an inch from my right sneaker. “Morbid little freak.”

  Gene and his supercharged puberty mutant posse stalk away, leaving me and my coward of a best friend standing there with Redneck Superhero Dylan Mathews.

  “Thanks,” I manage to get out, but my voice sounds a lot higher than usual. Like Lois Lane or something.

  I clear my throat. Dylan doesn’t say anything. He just looks me up and down with an expression I can’t read. Maybe he believes the things Gene says about me. Maybe Gene has been saying those things to everybody ever since I tried to kiss him behind the coat cubby at Buckingham Elementary when I was in first grade and Gene was in second. Anyway, I’d hoped Gene had forgotten about that. I guess not.

  “What was that about?” Dylan finally says in a low mumble. He slips his hands into his pockets, pushing his scuffed jeans down low on his waist. His deeply tanned arms are long and have all these hills and valleys dented into them. I know he doesn’t have one of those redneck tans that only show on his face, neck, and arms, because I’ve seen him working in the cornfield without his shirt on. I try not to stare at him from my bedroom window when he’s out there driving the tractor around, but I can’t help it. So I repent. A lot.

  “Gene heard Riley talking about trying to find his mama,” Gary says, jumping in when I fail to answer.

  The two of them share a look that bothers me. I get why Dylan might think I’m crazy for believing there’s still a chance the police will find Mama. The whole town has given up on finding her. They don’t even write about her in the newspapers anymore. But Gary is my best friend. And a traitor, apparently.

  “Don’t pay Gene no mind,” Dylan says to me, glancing over his shoulder toward the courtyard. He’s probably hoping none of the other eighth graders see him talking to us sixth grade peons. “He’s just a spineless bully.”

  “Hey, Dyl,” Gary says. For some reason he doesn’t get as flustered as I do talking to Dylan. He even dares to abridge Dylan’s name. “Have you ever heard a story about the Whispers?”

  Traitor times two.

  “It’s just a dumb bedtime story my mama used to tell me,” I say, jumping in, downplaying Gary’s bigmouthed confession. I can’t believe he’s embarrassing me in front of Redneck Superhero Dylan Mathews like this. “You know, before she . . .”

  I hate using the word disappeared. Mama didn’t just disappear into thin air. She was taken. Abducted. Kidnapped. That much I know. I can’t prove it, but I just know it in my gut. Something about the suspicious car that was parked in the driveway that day and the shifty-looking guys who were sitting in it watching the house. But the police have come up empty-handed—no leads, no suspects, no ransom note or call. And I know what some people think—that Mama left of her own free will. They don’t understand that Mama would never do that to me. Not possible. Not even after that Kenny from Kentucky dude showed up and ruined everything.

  “I’ve heard it,” Dylan says, saving me from my tongue-tied state. “The story about the Whispers. My grandma used to tell it to me wh
en I was a kid.”

  I stand there staring up at him. I don’t know what to say. I’ve never known anyone else who’s heard the story outside of my family. I thought it was something passed down to my mama from Grandma, and her mama before that.

  The way Dylan stares at me makes me nervous. Like he’s looking right through my eyeballs into my brain and knows all my secrets that I keep hidden back there.

  That I wet the bed.

  That I have no interest in Rebecca Johnson’s miraculously inflated boobs.

  That I have Mama’s ring.

  That I stare at him through my bedroom window when he’s working in the cornfield without a shirt.

  I feel like I’m going to vomit right on his Captain America T-shirt.

  “Do you think they’re real?” I manage to squeak out vomit-free.

  The bell rings before my own personal redneck superhero can answer.

  8

  GIANT YELLOW DEATH BOX

  Even though I still haven’t forgiven him for making me look stupid in front of Dylan at recess, I sit with Gary on the bus ride home that day. His little brother Carl gets on at the Buckingham Elementary stop and sits in the seat in front of us, watching and listening to everything we say. Carl favors their white mama more while Gary favors their black daddy, but Gary says that Carl is just as black as he is on the inside, so who am I to argue? Besides, Mama says God is color-blind even though most people aren’t, but that we should try to be more like God than most people. Makes sense to me.

  Carl doesn’t talk much. He seems perfectly happy letting Gary be the big brother and control everything, including their conversations. I’m glad my brother has to ride a different bus now that he has to go all the way into Upton. That’s where the closest high school is. Buckingham throws in the towel on its kids after they graduate from middle school. After that, you get yourself to Upton if you require further education.