Though nervous, I shout, “Leave us alone!” I inch sideways, closer to Carlos, away from the line of fire between the gun and Eddie.
Mike, Eddie, and Snap try not to act scared. Carlos holds the gun firm, with two hands. He looks more frightened than they are.
Eddie grabs Mike’s shoulder. “Come on.” Mike doesn’t want to go, but Eddie is the leader. Scornful, Snap says, “I don’t care about some Texas kid.”
“He should go back to Texas.” Mike spits. “Later.”
Later what? They’ll beat us up?
“If you come back, you’ll be sorry,” says Carlos.
“Yeah,” I warn. “Sorry.”
“So now you’re tough, Jerome?”
I cringe, and don’t answer Eddie. I’m nauseous. Sorry I got into this mess.
Carlos juts the gun toward Eddie.
“See you later, Jerome. Most def.”
“Let’s go,” says Eddie and he, Mike, and Snap saunter out the door.
The lunch bell rings. Back to class. Relieved, I rush forward. Ma and Grandma are going to kill me if they find out I was near a gun.
Carlos grips my arm. “Jerome! It isn’t real. See.”
It isn’t real? I stare, whistling. “Plastic? That’s how you got it through security.”
Carlos grins, nodding. Then he laughs, his voice pitching higher and higher. “A good trick. Right?”
“Trick,” I repeat, doubling over, laughing. We’re both sweating, hysterical. I gulp air.
I’m less scared. Still nervous. But less scared. Carlos is smart.
A toy gun.
SARAH
Not knowing how, I find the girl’s house. It’s not a mansion but it’s nicer than my family’s apartment. There’s a front and backyard. A porch. A basement and two floors. Windows everywhere.
A police car is in the driveway.
A curtain flutters. I see the girl. Like magic, I float inside, into the second floor and a pink bedroom.
The girl stumbles, falls against her dresser. She wants to scream, I can tell. But she doesn’t.
“I recognized your picture,” she says, breathless, terrified.
“You see me? How come?”
“I don’t know.” She’s got freckles. A nervous smile. Brave, she stands up straighter.
“It’s been lonely. Not talking to anyone. Not being seen.”
“I’m lonely, too,” she says, flushing. “Sounds dumb. But I am lonely. Ever since my dad shot you. He and my mother fight. They’re sad all the time.”
“They should be—”
“Sad? He was scared.”
“I was playing. I was the good guy.”
I was, too. Kim and me hardly ever played outside. “Gangs. Drive-bys,” my parents always say. It was a special afternoon, me, outside, rather than stuck in the dark apartment. I told Grandma I’d made a friend. It was a fine day.
“I’m sorry,” the girl whispers.
Her sorry makes me angry. If she wasn’t a girl, I’d think about hitting her.
Dead, I can’t hit anyone. And that makes me even angrier. Her bedroom is three times the size of mine. Decorated with a bookshelf, framed pictures, a pink striped comforter, a TV, and a computer. I bet she doesn’t even hear gunshots in her neighborhood.
“My dad was doing his job.”
“He said that?”
She presses her lips tight.
“He shot me.”
“My dad protects and serves. That’s what policemen do.”
“He didn’t protect me. Everybody in my neighborhood knows cops do whatever they want.”
“That’s not true. He upholds the law.”
I grunt.
Upset, the girl rocks back on her heels.
I don’t care. Her bedroom is like cotton candy. Sickly sweet. Ballerinas on the lampshade glow. Two tiny stuffed pigs rest on the pillows. Nothing bad is supposed to happen to whoever sleeps in this room.
“Jerome?”
I don’t answer.
“Can I help?”
I almost scream, Can you make me alive again? But I don’t. This girl is crying. I’m surprised a stranger is crying for me.
“I can’t change things. You’re all over the news.”
I don’t want to be in the news. “What’re they saying?”
“Depends.”
Before I can say, “On what?” the door opens.
“Sarah, time for bed.”
“Yes, Dad.”
Officer Moore is skinny with big hands and reddened eyes. He hugs his daughter, tight. I think she might break. But Sarah doesn’t pull away.
“Want to go skating tomorrow?”
“Sure, Dad.”
He kisses her forehead and I’m jealous. Who’ll ever kiss me?
“Dad? Is it true he was twelve?”
Officer Moore holds Sarah at arm’s length. “It’s a rough neighborhood.”
“Same age as me.”
“You don’t know him. You didn’t see him.”
Sarah looks at me. She does see me. We’re the same height. Probably in the same grade. Seventh.
“He’s—” She points, stops, stutters. “He was my height.”
Her father blinks, like he doesn’t recognize her. Like he can’t believe she’s contradicting him.
She plunges on. “You said he was big. Scary.”
“I was there,” he fires back. “Not you.”
Sarah lowers her eyes, clasps her hands, trembling.
Her father leaves, slamming the door.
He doesn’t hear, “Did you make a mistake?”
“No, he didn’t,” I answer.
“It must’ve been a mistake.”
“He did it on purpose.”
“No, it was a mistake.”
“Later,” I say, disgusted.
“Don’t leave.”
“Why should I stay?”
“We could be friends.”
“That’s the stupidest thing.” I’ve never had a friend like Sarah. A white girl. I laugh, it’s so stupid. Die, and a white girl can be your friend.
“I’m not trying to be funny. Stay.”
She’s pleading. I feel sorry for her. My school doesn’t have any Sarahs. Definitely not ones who like pigs and pink. “Got to go,” I say.
“Where?”
This catches me up short. I don’t know. I don’t even know how I go, how I move. I just dissolve. Fade away, then appear again. Can I control that?
Beside Sarah, I feel like I’m being watched. Uneasy, I turn, try to lift the window curtain.
Ghost boy is looking up at me. A streetlight’s glow filters through him. He’s watching, waiting for something. From me? Sarah?
Next to me, Sarah sniffs, whimpers. “What does it feel like? Being dead? Aren’t you supposed to go somewhere?”
Now I feel like crying. I’m sick. Homesick. But my family, even Kim, can’t see me. I hate watching them eat cereal, fake smiling and pretending the day is ordinary. I hate seeing where I used to sit, empty.
Who knew death was so complicated? Who knew THE END wasn’t the end?
“I hate school.” Sarah sits on her fluffy bed.
“What? You being bullied?” I understand bullying. Being shoved into lockers. Humiliated.
“Some people are angry at my dad. They shout at me like I’m a bad person. But some people…” She looks down at her hands. “Some people think my dad’s a hero. That he was doing his job. That he’s brave and I should be proud of him. That I’m special, lucky to be his daughter. I’m embarrassed.”
I shudder. “I don’t believe it. Your family’s got everything. A nice life. People celebrating you. It’s not—”
“Fair.”
Twice, she’s finished my sentence. “Later,” I say.
“I don’t want to be liked because my dad killed you.”
She looks like her dad. It’s hard looking at her. I swallow.
“Sarah. That’s your name?”
She nods. “I love Dad
more than anything. But seeing you, I wonder how he could’ve—”
“Shot me?”
“Yes. Maybe someone might shoot me?”
“Naw, you’re a girl. And white.”
“Is that it? Is that true?”
I shrug my shoulders. How many times had I heard: “Be careful of police”; “Be careful of white people.…” Everybody in the neighborhood knew it. Pop told me as soon as I could read.
I sit cross-legged on the floor. No bones, no muscles, but I feel tired just the same.
“I’m supposed to see you,” insists Sarah. “It means something. It must.”
She sits, cross-legged, beside me. Even her nails are pink. “I think I’m supposed to help you.”
“Help me? How can you help me?”
“I don’t know.”
“My grandmother. She tells me it’s time to get going. Move on.”
“She can see you?”
“Naw, not like you. She can’t hear me either. But she senses I’m around.” I sigh.
Sarah sighs. Two kids. One dead, one alive.
Crazy. I laugh again. Sarah smiles, then laughs with me. She knows I’m not laughing at her. We’re both nervous. I think, if we weren’t laughing, we’d cry.
Doesn’t feel right to be laughing when I’m dead.
I wish I’d never met Sarah.
December 8
School
Carlos sits in the row across from me through every subject. Language arts, history, math. Sometimes his head drops onto his desk. Like he hasn’t had enough sleep. He’s skinny. Much skinnier than me. Skinnier than Kim.
I want the bell to ring. I’ve done too much already. Helped Carlos. Watched Mike, Eddie, and Snap pretend they weren’t scared. I’m exhausted. Anxious. Tense.
Today, I wasn’t stomped. Wasn’t so lonely. I’m confused. Being good gets me in trouble; scaring bullies gets me out. I don’t like it. I don’t like thinking about how to keep myself safe tomorrow. And the next day.
I don’t have a toy gun.
The bell rings. “Bye,” I say to Carlos. I dash out the room. Lugging my backpack, I rush through the school door, down the steps. On the sidewalk, I wait for Kim. Kids rush by me.
Surprising me, Carlos tugs my coat. “Hey, let’s hang out.”
Cold, shivering, he says, “I can be late. My mom won’t mind.” He’s grinning, wide awake.
He lifts the gun partway out of his pocket. “We could play. Pretend we’re taking down zombies.”
“No.” I shake my head, trembling.
“We’re friends now, aren’t we, Jerome?”
I frown at the shape in his pocket. I remind myself it’s a toy. Not a gun.
I shake my head again. “I have to go home.”
“Then you take it. Give it back tomorrow.”
“Jerome?” I hear.
“My sister.”
Carlos nods. “Hey.”
Kim smiles sweet like she thinks Carlos is cute.
“I’m Carlos. Jerome is my friend.”
Kim smiles brighter. “Hey, Carlos.” She’s not used to anyone calling me “friend.”
Carlos grins. “Chicago’s not so bad.” He offers the gun. Kim steps back. I shift my body so people can’t see.
“It’s okay, Kim,” says Carlos. “It’s just a toy.”
Carlos puts it in my hand. The plastic feels light, clammy.
“Play with it, Jerome.”
“No,” I say, sliding my hand free.
“It’ll be fun. You can scare the bad guys. Kim, you won’t believe what we did.”
“Don’t!” I don’t want Kim to know what happened.
“Got it, sorry.” He steps closer, murmuring, “I’m just trying to say thanks, Jerome. You helped me out a lot. Good friends share. You can bring it back tomorrow.”
Carlos is serious. He looks like a mouse. One of the nicest in a Disney cartoon—all curious, helpful, and worried at the same time.
Kim stares at me. Her eyes are telling me “no.” Don’t do it.
The sky is overcast. There isn’t any snow, just dirty mounds of ice on the ground. Kids are escaping school, yelling and shouting. Across the street are some dealers. Principal Alton watches them. Nobody is approaching me, Carlos, and Kim.
I study the gun.
The gun’s blackness is bold, startling.
I’m always good. (Teasing Kim doesn’t count.) I say what Grandma wants to hear. Calm her and Ma. Watch out for Kim. Play Minecraft for just an hour. (Okay, sometimes two.) Do my homework. Even act nice when Mr. Myers isn’t asking me (he’s asking the whole class!) to welcome the new kid. Sucker. That’s me. Why can’t I have some fun? Pretend I’m a rebel in Rogue One?
Better yet, scare Eddie if he tries ambushing me on the way home? Or jumping me tomorrow on the way to school? Why am I the only one who’s scared all the time?
“It’s just a toy,” I whisper to Kim. “It won’t do anything bad.”
The gun rests in Carlos’s brown palm.
My head aches; my stomach hurts.
“Grandma and Ma won’t like it. Pop will get mad.”
Weird, Kim’s words make me want the toy more.
“It’s okay,” says Carlos. In the cold, his breath blows smoke. “It’s okay.” Carlos spins, tucks the toy into his pocket.
I clutch his arm. “I want to play.”
Carlos grins. Slyly, he slides the toy to me. “Bye!” he says, jogging, then running full out.
I grip the handle. It’s firm with ridges. The barrel doesn’t spin. But the trigger cocks just as if you were loading or firing a real gun. I look down the rounded muzzle. There aren’t any plastic bullets. Or pellets. My hands shake. I look up. Light snow falls. I shiver.
It’s just a toy. Why am I scared of a toy?
“I made a friend,” I say to Kim as if that explains everything.
She scowls and starts walking home, her lips taut, thin like Ma’s when she’s angry.
“Today was a good day,” I say. “I didn’t get hurt. I didn’t get beat.
“Today was a good day. I made a friend.”
I keep chattering and though she’s my little sister, she’s street smart. She knows how lonely my school days are. She knows I’m begging, begging without saying, Don’t tell. Don’t tell. Please don’t tell Ma. Or Grandma. Especially not Pop.
She slips her hand in mine; I know I’m safe. We walk home. My left hand feels how warm Kim’s gloves are. Like Carlos, I don’t have any gloves.
My right hand clutches the plastic in my pocket. It burns.
Preliminary Hearing
Chicago Courthouse
April 18
“Were you surprised you shot a child?”
“Asked and answered, Your Honor,” says the defending lawyer.
“I’ll rephrase. Why were you surprised?” asks the lawyer calmly. “Can’t you tell the difference between a boy and a man?”
“Yes, of course. I mean… it was dark.”
“Daylight.”
The judge’s face is like a mask; her hair, silver. She peers at Officer Moore.
Officer Moore swallows. “Yes, daylight. He was big.”
“More than any other twelve-year-old?”
“Yes. Bigger.”
“Are you prejudiced?”
“No.”
“Liar,” someone shouts.
“Quiet,” the judge warns, tapping her gavel once.
I look across the courtroom at Sarah. Eyes wide, her elbows on her knees, her palms cupped over her head. I’m standing next to her father, studying him.
“Have you heard of racial bias?”
“No.”
“Heard prejudice can affect your thoughts, actions? Whether consciously. Knowing. Or unconsciously?”
“I’m not racist.”
“Possibly you were responding to unconscious stereotypes of black men as large, threatening, dangerous?”
“No. I acted with just cause.”
“How tall is
your daughter?”
“Objection,” says the seated lawyer.
“Sustained,” answers the judge.
“I’ll ask another way. Would it surprise you if I told you Jerome Rogers, the child you killed, was no taller than five feet, ninety pounds?”
Officer Moore is surprised.
Her palms pressed tight against her ears, Sarah bows her head. She can’t see her father squirm. I can.
Then, it’s my turn to be surprised. The ghost boy sits beside her. He tries to hold Sarah’s hand. She doesn’t flinch. Neither hand meets. They can’t. He’s dead; she’s alive.
Sarah sees us both.
Ghost boy extends his hand toward me. Like I’m supposed to hold it? Be grateful?
I flinch. What am I supposed to do? What does it mean?
Officer Moore’s plump-faced lawyer asks for a lunch break.
The judge agrees. For a few seconds, she closes her eyes. I think it doesn’t matter if Sarah can see me and the ghost boy. It only matters that the judge sees Sarah’s dad is lying.
People file out of the courtroom. Pop is steadying both Ma and Grandma. Officer Moore guides his wife, hand on her back.
I don’t move. Sarah and the ghost boy walk out of the courtroom, turning once to look back at dead me.
LOST
“You saw him today, didn’t you?”
Sarah doesn’t act surprised. She knows who I’m talking about.
“He say anything?”
She shakes her head, her feet dangling off the bed. “I think there’s a reason I see him, too.”
“I wish you’d hurry up and figure it out.”
“Why do you?”
“What?”
“See him? What if it isn’t because you’re—”
“Don’t say it. Of course it’s because I’m dead.” Yet even as I say it, I feel there’s another reason, too.
Downstairs, a door slams. Sarah’s mom and dad are shouting. Glass breaks.
“Administrative leave,” murmurs Sarah. “Drives Dad crazy.”
“He’s getting paid?”
“Yes.”
I clench my hands. “Pop wouldn’t mind getting paid for not working.”
Ghost Boys Page 3