GHOST CROWN: THE TRACKS TRILOGY - Book Two

by J. Gabriel Gates

  “Appearances can be deceiving.”

  “And she is somewhere down there, in that insignificant mess?”

  “Ah, yes,” the older man assured him with a deep sigh of satisfaction. “She is down there. And she is the key to what we seek. She has a light like no other. Bright. Pure. You will know her immediately.”

  “I’m looking forward to it.”

  Oberon pulled his long, black overcoat more closely about his shoulders and shivered slightly in the chill wind. “Come, my son,” he said. “Take me home. We have work to do.”

  Chapter Two

  Friday night.

  The atmosphere in the men’s room was rife with the aroma of pee and urinal cakes. Outside, drums rattled and horns blared. Chants of M-H-S, M-H-S rang through the night, and the concrete walls of the bathroom vibrated as a couple of thousand feet stomped on the bleachers above, in time with the cheer. It was the fourth quarter of Middleburg High’s homecoming game, and the MHS Phoenixes were behind for the first time all year. But there were bigger problems to worry about, Raphael thought, as he zipped up his jeans and joined Ignacio at the sink.

  They took their time washing their hands, neither of them eager to rejoin the noisy chaos above. None of the Flatliners were happy to be outside in the freezing cold to cheer for the football team, especially since most of them were Topper jerks they had fought in hand-to-hand combat only a couple of weeks before.

  “I’m telling you, none of this is going to work,” Nass said, shaking his head.

  “It’ll work,” Raph said.

  “Nothing has so far,” Nass replied mournfully.

  Raphael could understand his friend’s concern. If tonight was any indication of how things were going to go tomorrow at the dance, Nass had plenty to be worried about. The Flatliners had met at Rack ’Em that night as usual, but Clarisse had insisted on going to the game instead of hanging out at the billiards hall.

  “With four older brothers who were all tight ends, she’s kind of got an obsession with football,” Nass had explained apologetically. He glanced at Dalton and could see she was about ready to blow, even though she’d gone out of her way to be polite to Clarisse.

  “Me? You wait until baseball season rolls around and you’ll see who’s obsessed,” Clarisse had announced to the group. “My ’Nacio here is a baseball star.”

  Dalton’s expression darkened at the words my ’Nacio, but Raphael spoke before she could.

  “Beet was thinking of going, just to support Natalie—so let’s all go. We can hang at Rack ’Em any time,” he said.

  There was a little grumbling, but everyone could see that Clarisse was determined to go—with or without them—which meant Nass would have to go, too. And if Nass went, they all had to go. The football game was big-time Toppers territory and there was no way any Flatliner could go there alone.

  Now, as they dried their hands, Nass said, “I’ve got to talk to Dalton and tell her what’s going on.”

  “As long as you know what’s going on,” said Raphael.

  The door swung open, and Benji and Beet walked in. “I told you,” Benji was saying. “It’s by choice. You know how many girls will be at the dance without dates? I’ll just sit back and take my pick. Why would I bring a sack lunch to a buffet, man?”

  “Because you’ve got no sack,” Beet retorted, and the banter went on as Raphael and Nass headed out to the bleachers.

  It took them only a minute to hike up to where the Flatliners were filling most of a row. Emory and Myka sat with Josh and his date, Beth, a cute, wholesome-looking girl with long, straight blond hair who lived out in the country north of town.

  Clarisse and Dalton were sitting next to each other in icy silence, with an open space for Nass between them. He gave Raphael a see-what-I-mean look and went to take his seat. Raphael took the open space on the end, next to Clarisse, just as Benji and Beet came back in from the opposite side.

  “Well, well, Raphael,” said Clarisse, glancing over at him. “Ralph, right?”

  “Raph. No L. My friends call me Raph.”

  “You really some kind of a kung fu expert?”

  “Some people think so.”

  Clarisse nodded, eyeing him appraisingly. “So you’re not into sports?” she asked. “Real sports, I mean.”

  “You mean like on a team?”

  “Yeah—like football, basketball, baseball. You know—the big three.”

  “Not really,” he told her. “I used to play soccer, but school pride’s not really my thing.”

  After a quick look at Nass, who was talking to Dalton, Clarisse turned her attention back to the field. “So who’s this quarterback? He’s got a great arm, and he’s amazing out of the pocket.”

  Oh, you mean Rick Banfield? Raphael wanted to say. My girlfriend’s sociopathic brother and one of the biggest jack-holes that ever lived . . .

  But he just said, “That’s Rick Banfield.”

  “Oh—that guy from your so-called rival gang. What do you call them?”

  “The Toppers,” Raphael said.

  “Right. The Toppers. He got a girlfriend?”

  “You interested?” Raph asked quietly.

  Clarisse studied him a moment. “Don’t get me wrong,” she said. “Me and Nass go way back.” She glanced at Nass, who was handing Dalton his phone, then back at Raph. “But we’re cool, you know? He can talk to other girls,” she said pointedly. “I can talk to other guys. But Ignacio is my boy. Nothing and nobody will ever change that.” The look in her eyes was a complicated mixture of defiance, amusement, and flirtation, and he understood at once how shrewd she was and how stubborn she could be.

  She turned back to watch and clapped appreciatively as Rick picked up eight yards and a first down on a quarterback option play.

  “So,” she said again, nodding at the field. “He got a girlfriend?”

  “Yeah.” Raphael pointed down at the sidelines where Maggie was leading a cheer, her blond ponytail bouncing up and down as she waved her pom-poms. “That’s her.”

  Clarisse looked at Maggie and laughed—a short, derisive little snort. “Well, you can’t get any more white bread than that,” she said, and settled back to watch the game. As she did, she reached over and casually placed her hand on Ignacio’s knee. He frowned at her and pushed it off with a quick glance at Dalton, who had turned away for a moment, still on his phone. Raphael could see what Nass was talking about, now. He was in trouble with this girl. Maybe even the formidable Dalton needed to watch her back.

  “Thanks,” Dalton was saying into Nass’s cell. “I’ll be right there.” As she returned it, she told him, “Well, that’s what I get for volunteering to head the decorating committee. I’ve got to go over to the gym and make sure everything’s ready for crowning the king and queen tomorrow night. They’re having trouble with the balloon-drop thingy. She turned to Myka and Beth. “Come on, you guys. I have a feeling I’ll need backup.”

  “Who wants to watch this stupid Topper loser game anyway?” Myka grumbled. Beth was already on her feet.

  Clarisse tossed a quick, speculative look at them when Nass asked Dalton, “Want me to come along?”

  Dalton glared at Clarisse, who turned back to the game, but she spoke to Nass. “No, thanks—I wouldn’t want you to be rude to your guest.” She snatched up her purse and buttoned her coat. “I’ll see you over there.”

  Over Clarisse’s head, Nass threw Raphael a look that said, Oh, man—she’s steaming. Raph responded with a grin and a shrug—it was impossible not to see the humor in Nass’s predicament. Everyone went back to watching the game and Raphael scanned the crowd, searching for his secret homecoming date.

  And there she was—on the far side of the bleachers, a couple of rows closer to the sidelines, sitting with her dad. Zhai Shao and Dax Avery, another Topper, were with them. Raphael was still anno
yed that Aimee couldn’t sit with him, but they both knew if they wanted to have any time together at the dance they would have to stay away from each other during the game. If Jack Banfield saw them together, she would be grounded and not make it to the dance at all. It was messed up, Raphael thought, but that’s the way it was. After a moment, as if she could feel his gaze on her, Aimee looked around and saw him. She smiled and managed a discreet wave, and he longed to be with her more than ever.

  The only thing going right, he thought, was the scoreboard, which read: Middleburg 28, St. Philips 35. With nine seconds left on the clock, Middleburg was backed up on their own thirty-three yard-line. A loss tonight would ruin the Phoenixes’ perfect season and might just help deflate Rick’s overblown ego a little. It would be even more appropriate for that loss to come on the night of the homecoming game, when the stands were more packed than usual. It was a Middleburg tradition to hold their homecoming later than any other school in the area, and this year it was the second-to-last game of the season. If they won tonight, Middleburg would be top-seed going into division playoffs. If they lost, it would be a huge embarrassment, especially for Rick.

  Now, it looked like it just might happen. Raphael could only hope.

  As Middleburg’s undefeated season had progressed, Rick had become more and more of a celebrity around town. Some of the old-timers at the Dug Out coffee shop even started wearing Middleburg Phoenixes t-shirts with Rick Banfield For President emblazoned across the back. The sight of the shirts had almost been enough to make Raphael puke, not to mention the horror he felt at the thought of Rick actually becoming president—of anything.

  If he and Aimee got lucky, the Phoenixes would get their wings clipped, and Rick would be so pissed off he wouldn’t show up tomorrow night. Without Rick there to harass them, they could have every dance together.

  He looked at the scoreboard again. The clock was ticking down.

  On the field, the offense broke huddle and lined up. The crowd hushed, tense, as Bran Goheen, the running back, lined up behind Rick. For an instant, everyone froze in anticipation and then the center snapped the ball. The linemen for both teams clashed together. Middleburg’s famed, gigantic Cunningham brothers barreled over the St. Philip’s defensive line. St. Phil’s secondary was playing way back, expecting a long pass from Rick’s NFL-bound arm, but instead Bran ran a shallow slant route and caught Rick’s low dart of a pass mid-stride. The Middleburg crowd shot to their feet, cheering as Bran sidestepped one tackler and then plowed through a second.

  He sprinted all the way to St. Phil’s twenty-yard line, only to get hemmed in. The clock was ticking down to nothing. Raph saw how it would go down and it was beautiful. Bran would be tackled, and Middleburg High would lose the game. As one, the crowd deflated.

  But out of nowhere, Rick came tearing through, running with incredible speed just a step behind Bran.

  “Here!” Rick shouted, and Bran tossed the ball back to him just before two of St. Phil’s cornerbacks brought him down.

  Suddenly, Rick had the ball and was barreling toward the end zone. There was one man to beat, a huge safety who had planted himself on the five-yard line and seemed poised to make the tackle and end the game. Rather than trying to avoid him, Rick charged straight toward him. He blasted into the safety, running right over him. The defender hit the ground sprawling and his helmet came loose and rolled across the grass like a severed head. Rick high-stepped into the end zone, holding the ball up and yelling a triumphant battle cry.

  The stadium erupted into chaos, with Middleburg High’s students, teachers, parents, and alumni cheering, screaming, stomping and clapping, the band frantically playing the Middleburg fight song and the cheerleaders waving their pom-poms wildly and doing back flips and toe touches.

  Raphael exchanged a glance with Ignacio and he knew they were thinking the same thing. Terrific. The great Rick Banfield is the hero. Again. At the same time, they noticed that the St. Phil’s player wasn’t moving. When the coach and the trainers couldn’t revive him, they waved over the EMTs, who stood near the ambulance that was parked next to the field, to load him onto a stretcher and take him away.

  But the game wasn’t over yet; Middleburg was still down by one and needed to kick the extra point to send the game into overtime. The kicking squad trotted onto the field and lined up quickly, catching both St. Phil’s defense and the still-celebrating crowd off guard.

  Raphael watched as the center snapped the ball. The place holder—Bran Goheen—caught it. But rather than placing it on the ground for the kicker to boot through the uprights, he stood, tucked it under his arm, and sprinted for the right side of the end zone—going for the two-point conversion and the win.

  It looked like St. Phil’s defense was going to stop him—the entire defensive line shifted to the right and presented a wall of huge bodies to block the way—but Bran raced forward, leaped into the air and, with an amazing, acrobatic front flip, threw himself over the defensive line and into the end zone. The referee’s arms shot upward, the crowd screamed once again, and the announcer’s voice boomed over the P.A. system:

  Two-point conversion is good! Number twenty-three, Bran Goheen, on the rush. Middleburg High wins—thirty-six, thirty five!

  Down on the field, Rick Banfield was swaggering along the sideline. Clarisse sat up a little straighter when the cheerleaders bounced over to their hero and surrounded him, and he reached out to grab Maggie and pull her close. Raphael saw the reticence in Maggie, her slight resistance to Rick’s show of possession, and he wondered if Clarisse saw it too. Rick was oblivious. With one arm around his gorgeous cheerleader girlfriend, and the other raised in the air, holding up one finger, number one, he continued his victory strut until his teammates stampeded over and lifted him, along with Bran Goheen, onto their shoulders. Raphael noticed that Maggie withdrew, looking kind of pale, into the group of retreating, yelling cheerleaders.

  Raphael caught a glimpse of Aimee, clapping and shouting happily, along with Zhai, her father, and the rest of the crowd.

  She glanced up and saw him and her eyes met his. She gave him a smile and a little shrug, as if to say: Sorry. I know my brother’s a jerk, but he’s a pretty good football player. She went back to applauding, a little more subdued.

  It was too bad, Raphael thought. Aimee should be happy. She should be proud of her brother. The thought that his feud with the Toppers was ruining her fun filled him with regret, and for the first time, he thought maybe she’d be better off without him.

  Everyone was filing out of the bleachers. A flood of students and proud parents poured onto the field to celebrate with the football team, and others were hiking toward their cars, trying to beat the rush out of the parking lot. Even if they weren’t too big on school pride, the joyous mood seemed to have infected the Flatliners, too, as they exited the stands. Beet was carrying Benji piggyback style, and Benji was slapping him on the butt with a program and shouting, “Mush, dammit! Mush!”

  Josh and Emory were in front of Raphael, talking quietly while their dates walked a few paces ahead. Ignacio and Clarisse were walking ahead of everyone.

  “I’m just saying, Clarisse is smokin’,” Josh commented. “Nass is doing solid work.”

  “Yeah, she’s definitely not ugly,” Emory replied. “But neither is Dalton.”

  They looked at each other and grinned. “It’s gonna be some showdown,” observed Josh. “Who do you think’s gonna come out on top?”

  “My money’s on Dalton,” said Emory. “But that little honey from the hood looks like she could do some serious damage.”

  Raphael saw they were getting as big a kick out of Nass’s problem as he was, and his thoughts turned to tomorrow night for probably the one-millionth time. He imagined himself pulling Aimee close, dancing with her in the shadows, trying to avoid Rick and his cronies. Even a few stolen moments were better than none, and in just a little while he would fe
el her in his arms again.

  Above, the last pink streaks of sunset were fading from the sky, slowly giving way to a misty twilight. The wind gusted, cutting like a frozen scalpel through Raphael’s coat. A snare drum was still rat-a-tat-tatting in the distance, and the Phoenixs’ fight song echoed through the trees.

  One thing was for sure: no matter what happened, the homecoming dance would be something he’d never forget.

  

  Around lunch time on Saturday, Nass sat at the kitchen table, frantically trying to finish his pre-calc homework before he had to get over to Little Geno’s. Homecoming or not, pizzas had to be delivered and he needed the money. With his mom out at the grocery store and Clarisse in the shower, he was taking advantage of the rare quiet time to get caught up. When the front door swung open, he almost groaned in frustration, but it wasn’t his mom—it was only his dad getting in from work. Raul Torrez, unlike everyone else in the household, was a quiet person. As usual, he was covered in dust and wearily lugging his toolbox. Six and a half days a week at Shao Construction was no picnic but in today’s economy, Nass knew his father had little choice.

  “Hey, kid. How’s the homework coming?” he asked as he put the toolbox in the hall closet next to the front door.

  “Good,” Nass lied. Math made him want to pull his hair out. “Mail came already—it’s on the coffee table. Just a bunch of junk mail—and something from the rental company.” He tried to focus on the problem he was doing as his dad looked through the pile of bills and circulars.

  Raul fished an envelope out of the stack and ripped it open. He was silent for so long that Nass looked up from his math book. He didn’t like the worry he saw on his dad’s face.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “It’s a notice—to terminate our lease. They’re kicking us out of here.”

  Nass jumped up. “No way!” he exclaimed. “Why? Can they do that?”

  “They don’t give a reason—they just say the lease we signed gives them the right to evict without cause, with a thirty-day notice. That’s what this is.” He put the letter back in the envelope, folded it, and put it in his back pocket. “Don’t tell your mother, okay? She’ll only worry.”