Sarah’s eyes tear up.
“Sorry,” I say, though I’m not. Sarah’s not stupid but even if I was alive, we wouldn’t live in the same world. Hers is a fantasy world. Like a TV family in a huge house with plenty of money, food.
Being poor is real. Our church has a food pantry, emergency dollars for winter heating. Last year when Ma’s appendix broke, when her sick leave was gone, we got bread, peanut butter, and applesauce.
Does Pop know Officer Moore gets paid for not working? For killing me? I want to kick something, scream, break down. But what’s the use?
Sarah’s dad shooting me is real.
Sarah believes her dad isn’t lying.
I run my fingers along book spines. I open some—there’s stickers saying
THIS BOOK BELONGS TO
Sarah Moore
Kim would love it here. All her books are from the library. She’d love owning one, love writing her name:
Kim Rogers
Declaring a book is hers.
One of Sarah’s books has a boy flying on the cover. There’s a silhouette behind him. A shadow-figure with arms outstretched and toes pointed, his body floating on the wind.
Peter Pan.
“This book good?”
“The best.”
I flip to the first page. I read the first line: “All children, except one, grow up.”
I frown. “What happened? Did he die?”
“No.” Sarah’s face reddens. “He doesn’t die. He stays a kid. He wants to stay a kid.”
These are the magic words. Ghost boy appears. Just like that. He’s not here, then here.
Shazam.
God, his eyes are big. Black pools to drown in. He’s wearing his black tie and wide-brimmed hat. He’s got fat cheeks and dimples.
“You look like a chipmunk,” I say.
Sarah giggles and the boy laughs. A gurgling, deep, rich sound. “Who wants to stay a kid?” he asks.
Me and Sarah stare at the ghost boy. Funny. Stupid. Funny. Three kids—two dead—talking about Peter Pan.
I’m not as lonely. Not as scared, I think. Not as sad as I am with my family.
Maybe being dead isn’t real after all? Maybe this is my fantasy? Maybe I’m dreaming? Or stuck in a storybook?
I blurt, “I always wanted to be grown. Being a kid sucks. Everybody telling you what to do. Trying to be good all the time. Escaping bullies, pushy crews. Cashiers who think you’re trying to steal.
“I was going to be”—my lips scrunch—“a basketball player. Making amazing three-point shots.” (Never mind I’m short.)
“I was going to be a baseball player,” says ghost boy. “Like Ernie Banks. First African American to play for the Chicago Cubs.”
“Lots more African Americans play for the majors.”
“Not then.”
“When was then?” asks Sarah.
“1955.”
Air sucks out of the room. Sarah’s pink walls start to make me feel sick. Even ghost boy’s papery-thin clothes and skin glow pinkish, yellow.
“You’ve been dead… years?”
“Decades.”
I wish I could cry. I wish there wasn’t a ghost kid in the room with me. I wouldn’t mind staying a kid if I could be alive. I wouldn’t care that I couldn’t grow up.
I trace Peter’s silhouette on the cover. He’s really flying.
I thought I could fly from a bullet.
Pityingly, ghost boy watches me.
Sarah’s eyes tear up.
“Don’t pity me,” I say, sharp, frustrated by Sarah.
“Maybe I can help you? Help you both? Like Wendy helped Peter?”
“Is Peter white? He’s white, isn’t he?” I ask, insistent, furious.
Sarah looks at me, quizzical.
“What’re you going to be, Sarah?” I shout. “You’re the only one who’s going to grow up.”
Ghost boy touches my arm and I’m surprised that I feel him. His hand is warm, comforting. It’s also taut, controlling me.
“It’s not Sarah’s fault,” he says. “Sarah can change. She’s changing. I’m here to help you both.”
“You can’t help me.” My mother, my father, my sister couldn’t help me. “I want to move on.” There, I said it. “I’m dead. I don’t care anymore why I died. I just want to go. Get away from my family’s pain. From you. And you,” I say to Sarah.
“It matters why my dad shot you.”
“Why? So you can feel better?”
Sarah starts crying and I feel like the bullies I hate. “I want to move on,” I say, stubborn. “Why haven’t I moved on?” I ask ghost boy. “Why haven’t you? Are you trapped, too?”
“I want to show you something.” Ghost boy spreads his arms and moves toward the window. It feels as if he’s guiding me, like a gentle wind. Can Sarah feel it, too?
We three stand at the window, watching night cloaking the world.
“See.”
A shadow. Then, another. And another. Another and another. Hundreds, thousands of ghost boys standing, ever still, looking up, through the window into our souls.
Do I have a soul still?
“I don’t understand.”
“These are your… our people.”
Sarah gasps.
I punch the wall. Nothing happens. No cracking or paint peeling.
“Black boys,” Sarah whispers, then clamps her hand over her mouth.
“This is messed up.”
“These are kids killed like Jerome? Killed like you?” asks Sarah.
Ghost boy nods.
I turn from him and Sarah. I look down. Hundreds and hundreds of shadow boys. A heart-wrenching crew. Army strong. No, zombie apocalypse strong. Standing on lawns, in the streets, their faces raised to me.
All children, except one, grow up..
“I’d give anything to grow up.”
Sarah buries her face in a puffy pillow. Stop crying, I want to shout. Instead I mutter, “Your bed is nice. Pretty.” Being nice is automatic. How stupid to be nice. I always tried. What did it get me?
I’m getting angrier and angrier. I explode. My hand connects. Peter Pan flies across the room. The book hits the wall, drops to the floor.
“Sarah, you all right?” A call from downstairs.
“I’m okay, Daddy.”
Sarah’s eyes are different now. Frightened again. Nervous.
Ghost boy shakes his head like he’s disappointed in me. Not fair, I think. I holler: “Why do I need a white girl looking after me?”
“You’re right. But maybe you’re supposed to do something for Sarah?”
“Naw, naw. That’s sick. Her dad kills me and I’m supposed to help? Who are you anyway?”
“Emmett. Emmett Till.”
I remember Pop shouting, “Grown men. Armed. Threatened by a boy?” Grandma screaming, “Emmett, like Emmett.”
“You’re the Chicago boy? Murdered like me?”
“1955. Down South.”
“Everybody knew the South was dangerous then.”
“Still is,” answers Emmett.
Sarah’s chin rests on her chest.
Disgusted, it’s my turn to disappear. Emmett was dumber, stupider than me.
I wasn’t in the old South. I was in the North. I was playing five blocks from my house.
Why am I dead?
I shouldn’t be dead. I shouldn’t.
REAL
Real is graduating high school.
Real is maybe going to college.
Real is getting a job. Though I won’t be a sanitation worker like my dad. Maybe an electrician? Or a business manager? (Being president is a fantasy. So is being a basketball player.)
Real is making enough money to help my folks pay off their house. Buying Kim lots and lots of books. Not Peter Pan.
Real is me having a girlfriend. (Maybe.)
Emmett sits beside me on the church steps. Moths hover, batting their wings at the streetlights; the moon is almost full. Fireflies blink.
If they could see us, they might see how I’m slayed, crippled with grief.
They might see Emmett, quiet, head down. He lays his arm over my shoulders to still my trembling. It doesn’t help.
Dead is too real.
“For me, baseball was real,” Emmett murmurs. “Crack—I loved the sound of the bat hitting the ball. Loved running ’round bases and sliding into home.”
Tonight feels different. Emmett has something to say. I can’t help but listen.
Just as I can’t help knowing sadness has a smell. It’s a musty closet with rotting food and maggots.
“Real,” Emmett says, “was going to college. Mother was on the honor roll. Only the fourth black kid to graduate her school. She became a teacher. Mother said, ‘Do better than me. Be a principal. Lawyer. Doctor.’ Crossing my fingers behind my back, I’d promise, ‘Yes, Mama.’” Emmett chuckles. “Shortstop, that’s all I wanted to be.”
Mean, I say, “Basketball. Nobody plays baseball no more. Black kids play the court. Want to be Jordan. James. Curry. Lame if you can’t dribble and throw.”
Emmett sighs, unwraps his arm. “I don’t know those names.”
Truth is I’m lousy at basketball. Now I’m getting good at bullying.
Wish I didn’t still have feelings; it sucks feeling sorry for another ghost.
Emmett murmurs, “Baseball, basketball. Not much difference, is there? Times change.”
“It’s people need to change.”
Nodding, Emmett agrees. “People change, but not enough at the same time. Or, maybe, people change, then forget they’ve changed and keep hurting.
“Chicago didn’t used to be so dangerous. Still, my mother was strict. ‘Family and faith,’ that’s what mattered, she said. It helped when I had polio.”
“Polio? What’s that?” I’m irritated I don’t know.
“Paralysis. Muscles like Jell-O. I walked with a limp. Stuttered, too.
“I’d whistle. Especially w sounds. W… w… w… what? Had the hardest time making words come out right.”
“How’d you die?” I look straight at Emmett. Eye to eye. There’s a softness to him. Like he’s a little old man dressed in a cheap suit. In school today he’d be bullied worse than me.
“Now’s not the time. You’re not ready.”
“I can’t believe this. You know everything about me. But I don’t get to know you.”
Emmett hangs his head. The brim of his hat doesn’t even cast a shadow on the ground.
“Summer, Mother wanted me to go to Nebraska with her,” he says softly, not raising his head. “Instead, I went to see my cousins in Mississippi. I should’ve gone to Nebraska.”
I wait. And wait. Not another word.
“That’s it? That’s all you’re going to say? Unbelievable.”
“Believe this, Jerome. It matters that Sarah can see you.”
“And I’m supposed to help her?”
“Got anything better to do?”
Got me. Absolutely nothing.
ME & SARAH
The preliminary hearing has recess. Funny, like the judge and the lawyers are going to play outside. Dodgeball? Flag football?
It’s just a day but the hearing feels like forever. It’s awful being talked about. Ma weeps; Grandma whispers, “Mercy.” Pop twists his fist in his palm. Lawyers in blue suits fight. Except for a slight narrowing of her eyes, the judge’s expression never changes.
Officer Moore’s wife is in the courtroom. Kim isn’t. I’m glad.
Outside, thousands of protestors stomp, shout in the streets. Some chant: “No justice, no peace!” They carry signs: JUSTICE FOR JEROME; BLACK CHILDREN’S LIVES MATTER; STAY WOKE; IS MY SON NEXT?
Police have helmets and plastic shields. Several sit on horses. NBC, ABC, FOX all have vans with antennas and slick-dressed reporters yakking into microphones.
Ma, Pop, and Grandma are escorted home by Uncle Manny and Reverend Thornton.
Today it’s easier being in Sarah’s room than anywhere else.
Visiting Sarah cuts through loneliness. Sometimes she speaks to me; sometimes she knows I want to be quiet.
She wants quiet, too. Protestors picket outside her house. Sarah keeps her window closed. Her world is upended. I get that. Sarah’s almost as messed up as me.
“How come you, not your dad, sees me?”
Sarah doesn’t answer. Her whole body shakes. I’d be freaked, too, if I had doubts about my pop.
“Emmett says I’m supposed to help you,” she says, balling her hands into fists. “Why I listen to him, I don’t know.”
“I think a white man killed him, too.”
“A cop?”
“I don’t know.”
Quiet, I squat. Like a flipbook, images race through my mind. Me, playing, turning, falling.
“You said I was in the news. You recognized my picture.”
“That’s all. Just the photo. My parents don’t want me to read about it. See it.”
“See it?”
Sarah’s eyes widen. “Video.” She inhales, stricken. “Maybe there’s video?”
If there’s video, she’d know once and for all her dad lied.
She stands in front of her computer.
“Maybe you shouldn’t, Sarah.”
She taps a button; the screen brightens.
“Maybe you should listen to your parents?” I don’t know why I’m saying this. Crazy, part of me doesn’t want to see Sarah hurt.
“I’d like to see it.” Determined, she sits in the chair, types my name, and pages of articles, links appear.
She clicks.
Seconds. That’s all. Two seconds. Me, standing. A police car, moving fast. I turn, fall. The gun skitters. I bleed.
“Dad didn’t warn you? He didn’t say ‘Halt, police’?”
We watch the silent screen. Images flicker. Ghostly shadows. We don’t move. I don’t breathe. Sarah holds her breath. It’s like a movie. I’m inside a movie.
Sarah exhales.
“Your dad and partner just stand there.” Staring down at me. The clock on the computer clicks. One minute. One one thousand. Two one thousand. Another minute. Another, then another.
Seeing myself, I remember lying, feeling my back burn and my cheek, cold. I can’t turn my head—it hurts—to see if Carlos’s toy is on my right.
I can’t lift my head, see sky. But I can hear voices—especially Ma’s and Kim’s, screaming. I see black boots. See dirt and snow. I wish Grandma was holding me.
Sarah scrolls down. Words roll up the screen.
“The article says paramedics were too late.”
Seeing me dying, my thoughts race. Who recorded the movie? Why didn’t they help me? Call the police? Can you call the police on the police?
Staring at the computer, I can tell when I died.
Like rising smoke, my spirit leaves.
Sarah’s face is bleak. “I’m so sorry, Jerome. So, so sorry. If I could, I would hug you. Bring you back to life.” Her body leans forward like she thinks she can touch me. Like she’s yearning, needing connection.
Sarah is forever changed. I can see that.
She murmurs, “He didn’t see you. My father didn’t really see you.”
“Does he see you, Sarah? Did he take you skating?” I ask, sarcastic. “Did he? Or is he selfish? Feeling sorry for himself?” If I were alive, I’d flush red. “Sorry, I’m being mean.”
“It’s okay, Jerome. I understand.” She steps closer. I smell lilacs.
She does understand. I blink. Out of the corner of my eye, I think I see Emmett. A shadowy outline. A breeze flutters the curtain.
I wish I could be hugged. Hug Sarah, too.
Preliminary Hearing
Chicago Courthouse
April 18
“You were the operator that answered the nine-one-one call?”
“Yes. Yes, I did.”
The 9-1-1 op
erator looks like a college student. Red hair, black-rimmed glasses.
Nervous, she twists her hands.
“Did the caller identify themselves?”
“No.”
“What did the caller say?”
“A boy, no, a man was in the park with a gun.”
“The transcript says ‘toy gun.’”
“Yes, toy gun.”
“Did you tell the reporting officers that?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Objection,” says the prosecutor.
“Speaks to credibility.”
“Answer the question,” insists the judge.
“I don’t know, I don’t know. I don’t know why I didn’t say ‘toy.’” The girl fidgets.
“Did you know in Cleveland, Tamir Rice also died because officers thought his toy was real?”
“I object.”
“Sustained,” says the judge, pounding her gavel.
“No more questions,” says the lawyer.
“Dismissed,” says the judge to the girl.
I wish she could hear me murmuring “Sorry.” Her saying “toy” wouldn’t have made any difference.
CIVIL RIGHTS
Sarah’s school is much better than mine. I mean, much better than my old school. Her school has trees and a track, basketball gym, and football field. My school has a chain-link fence and concrete where I ran and played hoops. Her school is mainly white. Mine was mainly black and Hispanic. Her school has a library with computers. Mine doesn’t even have a librarian.
Being dead, I see places I never saw before. See homes not high-rise projects, schools better than I ever imagined. Who knew there were schools with computer and science labs? Libraries with fluffy pillows and couches?
I wouldn’t have minded going to Sarah’s school. If I’d gone to Sarah’s school, I never would’ve been late or faked being sick. I don’t think any kid at my old school—even the troublemakers—would’ve minded a sky-blue-painted school with bright lights and clean hallways.
Ghost Boys Page 4