So the raggedy-runners was what I had to run in. And I stuck at it, through ladders on Wednesday, and Thursday’s long run. I, of course, was now a step behind Lu, who was blazing around the track like it was nothing, doing everything he could to secure his spot as the lead sprinter. I mean, we both were sprinters. And Aaron and Mike. But Mike was going to run the eight hundred and the four hundred, just because me and Lu were both faster than him in the shorter sprint races, and Chris Myers—who ran the eight hundred—his father took him off the team because his grades were slipping. Aaron was going to run the four hundred. He was the master of it. Like, seriously, could burn anybody. And between me and Lu, one of us was going to run the two hundred meter, and one of us was going to run the one hundred meter.
Now, here’s the thing. The two hundred was a good race. A hard sprint. But it wasn’t as, I don’t know, glamorous. No, no, that’s not the word. The two hundred just wasn’t the . . . main event. The main event was the one-hundred-meter dash. It was what Usain Bolt set the record in. It was the race. Before I got caught and Coach forced me to run in my old sneakers, I had a pretty good chance at snatching that spot from Lu. Don’t get me wrong, he was crazy fast and had been running that race pretty much ever since he started running. But over the month of practice, my time was maybe a half second faster than his. But not during the week of slumpy, cutoff shoe running, which was definitely the week that counted. But hey, it was only the first race of the season. So I figured I’d take the two hundred—honestly, I’d run any of the races Coach would let me—and work my butt off (and my legs and feet) to earn the chance to run that race.
Friday, Coach made me do exactly what he said I would have to. Clean out his cab. He came over to my house after school and drove around to the back of the building, where the Dumpsters were.
“Ghost, I’m not gonna lie to you,” Coach said, popping the trunk. “I don’t know what might be in here.”
I wasn’t sure either. I mean, the backseat was pretty much clear, just because that was the part of the car that he rode customers around in every day until I got in the car after practice. Then he put all the stuff in the front seat in the back. So the trash went from back to front, then front to back. Fast-food bags, gym bags, paper, shoes, and who knows what else. And then there was the trunk. When he popped it, and I looked in there and saw the end of the world, the backseat and front seat seemed spotless. The trunk was ridiculous.
“Coach, this is crazy!” I said, staring into what looked like the black abyss.
“I know,” he said, flashing an embarrassed smirk. “I sure am glad you did a stupid thing and have to clean all this up.”
And I did. I trashed all the fast-food bags, some with french fries and half-eaten burgers still in them. I pulled out the duffels. I don’t know why Coach needed so many gym bags. Who needs more than one? But there was nothing in them. They were all pretty much empty, because all the shoes, and stinky shorts, and towels took up about half the space of the entire trunk! Dirty socks, and headbands, and old jerseys from past years with the Defenders. He also had starting blocks, which are big and metal and heavy, shoved in there. And whistles. Whistles everywhere. I opened up the gym bags and loaded them up with all that crud. When I got to the last one, a yellow-and-green duffel with the name Otis on it, I unzipped it.
“Who’s Otis?” I asked Coach, who was sitting on the hood of the car, flipping through the lists of all our run times.
“Otis is me,” he said, not even looking up.
“Oh,” I said, flat. I mean, I knew Coach’s last name was Brody, and I figured his first name wasn’t just Coach. Nobody’s name is Coach. Well, that might not be true. My name is Castle, so someone might actually be named Coach, somewhere. But not chipped-tooth turtle face.
I started loading the bag up with a busted pair of cleats that probably would’ve been better off in the trash, when I spied a piece of paper, a crinkled-up rectangle, in the corner of the duffel. I pulled it out. It was a faded picture of a man, tall and slim like Sunny, facial hair only around his mouth but none on his cheeks. He had his hands resting on a little boy who stood in front of him. The kid was cheesing. The man was looking away, almost like he was calling out for someone.
“Who’s this?” I asked, bringing the picture around to the front of the car. Coach took it from me, looked at it like it was his long-lost gold medal. His mouth hung open for a few seconds before he finally answered.
“This is my father.” He tapped the picture with his finger. “And that’s me,” he said about the happy little boy. “Where’d you find this?”
“In that bag.”
Coach pulled the photo closer to his face, as if he was studying every detail. “Thank you,” he said, and right then I got the feeling that being mad at his dad wasn’t the only way he felt about him. He was. But I could tell Coach also missed his pops. He loved him. And I could totally relate to that, because as happy as I was that my crazy father wasn’t around to hurt us no more, whenever he wasn’t wasted, he was dope. That was my dad too. And I missed that version of him.
Coach gingerly slipped the photo in his back pocket, then pulled it right back out.
“Throw those bags in the trunk. I think you’re done,” Coach said, climbing into the cab. He took the photo and put it up in the dash part where the speed numbers are. I tossed all the gym bags full of dirty sports gear in the trunk and slammed it shut. Then I hopped in. “Where we going?”
“You’ll see.”
On the way to the land of you’ll see, I teased Coach about the name Otis.
“Seriously, Otis is the name of old men who smell like cinnamon and barbecue sauce.”
“Shut up, Ghost,” Coach said, laughing.
“I mean, Otis is the name you give short, fat dogs. Not people.”
“Oh, so I’m a dog now?”
“No, I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Well, how did you mean it?”
“I just meant Otis is a great-great-great-grandpa’s name.” I paused, struck by another thought. “Are you a mechanic? Because if you’re a mechanic, then it’s okay.”
Coach pulled over on the side of the road. “You wanna get out?”
I zipped it. And my mouth stayed zipped until we pulled up right in front of—wait for it—Everything Sports. I looked out the window and into the store. Tia was there, leaning against the counter, checking her cell phone. She could be doing some high kicks or some jumping jacks, but no. She was texting. Not an athlete.
“Do I need to tell you what we’re doing here?” Coach asked. And the truth is, he didn’t. I knew why we had come. Why we had to come. I had to come. But it didn’t feel good, that’s for sure. As a matter of fact, it felt pretty wack. I looked Coach in his eye and shook my head before exhaling a heavy, guilty breath. “You ready?” he said.
“Yeah, I’m ready.”
Coach walked in, and I trailed behind him with my head down, nervous and stupid feeling.
“Welcome to Everything Sports. Let me”—Tia stopped mid-greeting when she saw me. “Oh. It’s you.”
“Yes, yes, it’s him,” Coach said, his car keys clinking as he set them on the counter. I was still behind him, staring down at the gray carpet. “Head up, son. You know my rule,” Coach coached. “Stand tall at all times.”
I lifted my face and looked at Tia straight on. “I’m sorry,” I started, and in that moment realized sometimes a real apology can go a long way. Just like Shamika’s at school. Just like the one I never got from my father. But had he just told me he was sorry for what he’d done, maybe . . . I don’t know. . . .
Coach was leaning his ear toward me like Mr. Charles always did, as if he was hard of hearing. I followed up. “I’m really, really sorry for stealing the shoes. I just . . . I didn’t mean anything. I made a stupid mistake.”
“Stupid mistake. I mean, a stupid, stupid mistake,” Coach added, way too enthusiastic.
“That’s what I said, Coach. Stupid.”
&nb
sp; Tia’s mouth went from straight line to little bitty smile. Not big smile, but definitely not frown, and that was all that mattered.
“Okay,” she said. “I forgive you.”
Coach then handed over his credit card, and as Tia swiped it to pay for the shoes, Coach threw his arm around my neck, put me in a tight headlock, and whispered in my ear, “If you ever do this again, I promise I’ll make room for you in the trunk.”
I looked him in his face, in his eyes. Not a flinch. Just that big chipped-tooth smile, and a scary wink.
Yikes.
10
RACE DAY
SATURDAY. RACE DAY. My first one ever. I got up early, met by the sweet smell of bacon and eggs, neither of which are actually sweet-smelling, but you know what I mean. My mother was on the phone with Aunt Sophie, telling her what time she had to be here so that we could all go over to Martin Luther King Park together. I didn’t know what I was more excited about—the fact that I was going to run my first race on a track team, or the fact that my mother would be there to see it. I had been seeing Lu’s mom cheering for every little stupid thing he did in practice, and after I got over how annoying it was, I realized that there was something about it I kinda liked. So, my mom being there was major. And Aunt Sophie, because she was the loud one. She was the one who had a bullhorn for a mouth.
“Don’t be late, Sophie,” my mom said into the phone, dishing out the eggs.
Of course, anytime a person tells another person not to be late, it pretty much guarantees that they will be. I don’t know why, but it does. And Aunt Sophie was late. Not like crazy late, to the point that I couldn’t make it to the track on time. It’s just that we don’t have a car and were going to have to catch the bus to the park. But the bus was supposed to come at eleven fifteen, and Aunt Sophie and King didn’t get to the house until 11:09.
I was in the bathroom, staring at myself in the mirror. Coach had given me my uniform the day before, after humiliating me at the sports store. Guess, well, I kinda humiliated myself. But whatever. When we got back to my house, he told me I had earned it and that he hoped he never had to bail me out like that again.
“I won’t really put you in the trunk,” he said, smirking. “I’ll just tell your mother and cut you from the team. That’s way worse. Got me?” Coach dangled my jersey and shorts out in front of me. And I did get him. Big-time. I made up in my mind that I wouldn’t do nothing that stupid ever again. At least, I would try not to, especially judging from the way I felt holding that electric-blue uniform.
I usually get dressed in the living room, but I just wanted it to be a surprise for Ma when I came out. And I could’ve gotten dressed in the bathroom, but it’s too small, and I couldn’t risk doing anything stupid like dropping my jersey in the toilet or something. I know it sounds impossible; trust me, it’s not. I mean, not like I ever dropped anything in the toilet or anything. But it could happen! So I did what I never do. I got dressed in my bedroom. I stood in the middle of the room with the door wide open and pulled my shorts on. Then my jersey. I looked around at the posters of LeBron on the wall, from when he played for Cleveland the first time. My bed. The same cover. Same pillow. Same everything as that night. I sat on it, my body sinking into the mattress, almost like it was wrapping itself around me, hugging me. Like it missed me. And if the door wasn’t open and I couldn’t see straight down the hall to the living room, I might’ve freaked out. But I didn’t lose it. I just took a deep breath and let the flashes of that night come over me. My mother, flash, the covers being yanked off me, flash, the hallway, flash, the gun, flash. Then I looked down at the floor. Flash. My silver bullets, waiting for me. I unlaced them, slipped my feet in, then relaced them tight. And just like that, I felt different. I was a Defender.
My mother had even given me a fresh haircut the night before, just for this day, and I hit the bathroom to brush it and see if maybe a few waves were popping out. Or at least make sure it wasn’t one of her jacked-up cuts. Thankfully, she got it close to perfect. Almost no patches.
While primping in the mirror, I heard Aunt Sophie come in. She was hollering about how they were late because she had to make a sign to hold up when I was running.
“Castle!” my mother called from the living room. “They here! Let’s go!”
I came out the bathroom and my mother almost hit the floor. She put her hand over her mouth, which I only ever saw her do when somebody on one of those movies said something corny about not wanting to live without the other person and then they kiss.
“Look at you,” Ma said, hugging my neck, her eyes instantly wet. “You look like a champion.”
“You look like a superhero,” King said. “I’mma call you Runnin’ Man.”
“Yeah, like the dance?” Aunt Sophie asked.
“What dance?” I replied, totally confused.
“Doesn’t matter,” my mother cut in, now back to business. She grabbed her purse. “We gotta go.”
We went dashing down the block toward the bus stop, only to see the bus pulling off just before we got there.
“No!” Ma shouted, turning toward me. I could tell she wanted to cuss, but she didn’t. She just bit her lip, then looked at me and said, “I’m so sorry, baby.”
But it was okay. I had walked it so many times, and I knew that it was only like a fifteen-minute trek. With all the stops the bus was going to have to make along the way, we could probably get there quicker if we walked anyway. So I told them to follow me, as I took the short way, for once. Imagine it, my mother in yellow pants with flowers all over them (not scrubs) and lipstick and red cheek stuff on her face, and my aunt with jeans and sneakers, with a bright pink T-shirt and a baseball cap, and my cousin, King, dressed in shorts and a tank top and the same shoes as my beat-up ones, holding a big neon sign. Imagine the three of them, following behind me, Castle Cranshaw, dressed in an electric-blue track uniform. The Defender.
We walked past the fish market, the wig shop, and Everything Sports, before I realized that I had to make one quick stop. Mr. Charles’s store. Luckily, it sits right in the middle of everything. At least it seems like it does. Like I can always get to it no matter where I am in the city. I think maybe that was Mr. Charles’s plan. He’s smart like that, and I can see it even if his family don’t. He’s the smartest person with a store in the whole city, and maybe even the world. That’s what I think.
When we got there, I told Ma and Aunt Sophie and King to give me a second.
“Just need to get something,” I explained.
I pushed the door open and there Mr. Charles was, standing behind the counter as usual, staring at his television.
“Castle! How are you, my friend?” Mr. Charles said, holding his hand out. “What’s with the getup?”
“This is my track uniform. The Defenders,” I explained, pointing to the gold word printed across my chest.
“Who?” Mr. Charles leaned in so he could hear me.
“The Defenders,” I said louder. “The track team I told you about. Today’s my first race, and I just wanted you to see me.” There was no way I could hide the excitement in my voice.
“Ahhh.” Mr. Charles flashed a huge smile. He grabbed a bag of sunflower seeds off the wall. “Then take these for good luck. Pretend they’re power pills,” he said, which I thought was funny because for me, they kinda were. At least in my head.
“Thanks, Mr. Charles. I’ll tell you how it goes,” I said, reaching out for his hand.
“Yes, yes, please do, son,” he practically shouted, squeezing my hand. “Now, get out of here. You can’t be great if you’re late!”
After four or five more minutes, my mother, my aunt, and my cousin and me came up on the park. I was used to seeing it sprinkled with only a few parents—mainly Lu’s mom and a few others—and us, the runners on the track. But on race day, there were people everywhere. From the street, you could hear the buzz of the crowd and the sounds of whistles and you could see snack vendors and all the different-color jerseys as
coaches had their teams stretching and warming up. Once we got closer, I found my squad, that electric blue standing out.
“Ghost!” a voice came from behind me. It was Sunny.
“Sunny! Wassup, man?” We dapped. “This is my mom, and my aunt, and my cousin, King.” Sunny shook everybody’s hand, then told me to come get stretched and warmed up. My family lined up along the fence with who I guessed were the parents of the rest of my teammates. I saw Sunny’s father, Mr. Lancaster, still dressed up in a suit, but with sunglasses on. Patty’s (white) mother, holding her little sister, Maddy, up on her shoulders. Lu’s mom was there holding pom-poms, of course, and next to her was a man who looked just like Goose, the flashy dope man who hangs out at the basketball court. But it wasn’t. At least I didn’t think it was. Couldn’t have been.
When Sunny and I got to where the rest of the team was, everyone was sitting down with their legs out in front of them, holding the tips of their feet and pulling. It hurts like crazy, but Coach said it was good for us. The team looked at me as I sat down. They all noticed the uniform. And the silver bullets. I was dressed. I was a Defender. I was ready.
“Okay,” Coach said, needing to speak much louder than usual so that we could hear him over the noise. “I’ve got the lineup. Let’s start with the distance race. Running the mile, we have Sunny for the guys. Lynn for the girls. For the eight hundred, Mikey, you’re taking Chris’s place. Outlaw, you’re second heat. For the girls, Patty, you got this. Deja, you got second heat.” When Coach got to the two hundred meter, he looked at me and Lu. Then he looked down at his clipboard. Then back at us.
“Lu, you’re gonna take the two hundred,” Coach said. “And the one hundred.” Lu held back a smile and nodded. Coach got me. I thought he was going to let me run, but I guess this was the real last part of my punishment. I tried not to act disappointed. I looked over at my family. King and Aunt Sophie holding the sign, waiting to lift it into the air and scream like maniacs. And Ma. Standing there so proud of me.
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