by Avi
Into my head came Uncle Charlie’s words: Remember the number seven.
Bokor went on. “What was that last day called? All Hallows’ Eve. Guess how we changed that word? Halloween. It happens in two weeks, my friends. Right here.
“Yes, those ancient Anglo Saxons believed those seven-year-old ghosts had one last chance—Halloween eve—to regain life before plunging into the world of no return.”
I felt as if Bokor was talking just to me. Same time I noticed he had no accent in his speech. How long, I wondered, had he been in America?
“Why do we wear masks on Halloween?” Bokor demanded. “To keep our identities hidden. Same reason we close the eyes of the dead. Somebody said: ‘The eyes are the windows to the soul.’ So, if you are being pursued by those ghosts—with their searching eyes—look out. Keep your eyes closed. But if you wear a mask it will keep that ghost from knowing who you are.”
Mac called out, “Mr. Bokor, what happens if a ghost recognizes you?”
Bokor laughed. “Excellent question, Mac. If the ghost does recognize you, there is an exchange. The ghost rips out your soul, keeps it, and gains another seven years. But you, Mac, having lost your soul, join the ranks of wandering seven-year-spirits searching for another soul.”
“Okay,” said Jessica, “but what happens if the ghost doesn’t recognize you?”
“Ah, yes. If, after seven years, the ghost fails to catch a living soul, he—or she—descends into oblivion, never to return.”
Smiling broadly, Bokor looked around until his eyes fastened on me again. “Tony,” he boomed. “You’ve come from afar. Know anyone who died recently?”
The whole class was staring at me, waiting for my answer. Uneasy, I shifted in my chair. In the far back row I saw the Penda Boy. He was looking right at me.
Flustered, I blinked because the boy had vanished, the way Uncle Charlie had done in the fog.
I felt a sharp poke on my shoulder. I swung about. Bokor loomed over me.
“Tony,” Bokor cried, “you can learn that history is one long ghost story if you’ll be good enough to look at me when I ask you a question. It’s hard to miss me. Now, do you know anyone who died during the last year?”
With the eyes of the class on me, I stammered. “My . . . my great-uncle Charlie.”
“Be careful,” boomed Bokor. “Uncle Charlie’s ghost might be after your soul.”
The classroom hooted with laughter.
Bokor’s remark cut me like a knife: Was the Uncle Charlie I kept seeing a ghost? It was bad enough that I was dealing with the Penda Boy’s ghost. What if I was dealing with two ghosts, the Penda Boy and Uncle Charlie?
To my relief, the end-of-class-bell rang.
As if being chased, I hurried from class. Lilly caught up to me.
“So, Tony,” she asked, full of smiles. “Do you believe in ghosts?”
I couldn’t get Bokor’s words out of my head. All I could answer was, “Maybe . . . sometimes.”
She laughed. “Have you . . . ever seen one?”
I hesitated. Lilly was gazing up at me, waiting for a response. Suddenly wanting to talk about what had happened, I blurted, “I think I saw one this morning.”
“No way,” she said.
“Sort of. In that fog.”
“Who was it?”
Not knowing how to explain, I stammered. “Ah . . . not sure.”
Lilly cried, “Oh my God. I love that answer!” She held out an envelope. “Here’s my party info. I love party cards! Still coming?” she asked.
“Sure.”
“Awesome.” She rushed off.
I watched her go. So different from Jessica. Ordinary. Nice. Without Jessica’s forcefulness.
I opened her envelope. It was a printed card that read YOU’RE INVITED TO A PARTY. Pictures of colorful parrots. The place and time filled in. It made me feel that I was becoming part of the school. It was the rest of the world that was hounding me.
I went back to thinking: Two ghosts.
Bokor had said, “Memories are ghosts. Ghosts are memories.”
What was Uncle Charlie? What was the Penda Boy?
I felt like crying.
During lunch, I sat with Mia, Joel, Lilly, and Patrick. Mr. Bokor’s talk had them babbling about the upcoming school Halloween party. I was learning that the event was truly big, an all-school affair. There was endless chatter about costumes they might wear.
I sat silently, caught up in the possibility of two ghosts stalking me.
Though I was only halfway through my lunch, I got up. “Have to go to see Mrs. Z,” I announced.
She was at her desk, bent over work. As I approached, she looked up and offered a smile. “Hello, Tony. How nice to see you again. What can I do for you?”
“I’m supposed to tell you I want to be on the Ping-Pong team.”
“Wonderful.” She opened a drawer and pulled out a folder, then a sheet of paper. She looked up and handed me a paper with a sechedule. “Practice starts in November. Matches are already scheduled.
“Oh,” she added. “Student clubs. Wednesday afternoon, last period. I assume Mr. Batalie gave you a list. You need to choose one.”
“I will.”
She looked at me severely. “You need to do that soon.”
Paper in hand, I found myself staring at the painting of the boy. “Mrs. Z,” I said, “I don’t mean to bother you, but what . . . really happened to him?”
“The Penda Boy? I thought I told you. One day, apparently, he . . . disappeared. Students like to say it happened Halloween night.”
“Did they ever find him?”
Mrs. Z’s smile vanished. Her eyes showed fear. “I . . . don’t believe so. All I know is that I don’t want to meet him.” She hauled back her smile. “But at the Halloween party, somebody always dresses up like him. You’ll see him then. That’s harmless.” She gave a fake smile and, clearly not wanting to talk anymore, bent over her work.
I studied the boy’s face. He didn’t look harmless to me.
Then I peered over at the painting of Mrs. Penda. When I’d first looked at it, I had thought she was angry. Now, as I gazed at it, she too seemed full of fear. Like the look in the Penda Boy’s eyes. And on Ms. Foxton’s face when I first met her. Batalie showed it too.
There was something in the school that frightened them all. I was frightened as well.
I’m glad to say nothing happened on Tuesday. But on Wednesday, since I had yet to pick a club, I had a free period at the end of the day. Batalie told me I could sit in on any club that interested me or go to the library. “But Tony,” he said, the way Mrs. Z did, “you need to decide by next week.”
I went to the library, which I had yet to visit. There was something that I wanted to check, something that Bokor had said about open eyes. When I had first seen Uncle Charlie outside the school, his eyes were open, as they had been when he died. At his funeral, they had been closed. Did that change mean anything? Would that help me understand what had happened in the fog?
The library was a huge room, with a vaulted ceiling braced by large wooden beams, and tall, narrow windows on one side. Heavy tables and chairs were lined up in two rows. Bookcases were filled with books, with the usual sections: fiction, science, picture books, and so on. A few students were there—I guess they had permission to skip clubs—reading and writing. The only sound was the turning of pages, as if the books were whispering secrets.
At the head of the room was a desk, piled with books and a computer. A woman was sitting there. When I approached, she looked up.
“Hello there,” she said. “I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Mrs. DuBois, the librarian.”
“I’m Tony Gilbert. I’m new. Seventh grade.”
“Welcome to the library, Tony. I’m always glad to meet new students. I hope you know we’re open for an extra hour every day after classes.”
She gestured to the room. “This was Mrs. Penda’s private chapel. Looks medieval, doesn’t it? I think it’s bea
utiful.”
“Yeah, nice.”
“Can I help you with something?”
“Well . . . a few months ago, my uncle Charlie died. I was at the funeral.”
“Oh dear, I’m so very sorry.”
“And, he was in a . . . coffin. He looked okay, but they closed his eyes. I was sort of curious, you know, well, why? I mean, are dead people’s eyes supposed to be closed . . . or open?”
To my relief, Mrs. DuBois said, “You know, I seem to recall people used to put coins on a deceased person’s eyes. Good for you. Customs like that are so interesting.”
She stood up and beckoned me to follow her to the reference section, where she pulled out a book. It was titled Superstitions: Meanings and Origins.
I went to a table where no one else was sitting. The book’s entries were arranged in alphabetical order: Circle, Palmistry, Rabbit foot. Each had an article, which explained the superstition and how it came to be.
I looked up Eyes, only to be referred to Evil eyes. Under Evil eyes there was a long entry, which ended with:
It was commonly believed that the eyes of dead people should be closed before they “saw” another person. If the eyes were open, the deceased might take that living person with them to the land of the dead.
I read the paragraph a few times, thinking of the Penda Boy and the way he kept looking at me. I remembered too that when Uncle Charlie died, his eyes had stayed open. He had been looking at me.
What was it Bokor had told us? When a dead person’s eyes are open and looking at you, the dead person is trying to grab your soul.
Hadn’t Uncle Charlie said, “Hey, Tony, wouldn’t it be great if you and I went to the other side, together?”
Dread was only half of what I felt.
For the rest of the time in school I remained watchful for sightings of the Penda Boy and Uncle Charlie, relieved to see neither. When school was over, I hurried home. Using my desk dictionary, I looked up the word ghost. The entry read:
Ghost: A soul or spirit
Ms. Foxton’s words echoed in my head: A friend is one soul in two bodies. That made me remember something else Uncle Charlie had said: “Tony, when I die, I really want you to join me.”
Were Uncle Charlie and the Penda Boy working together? Apart? Were they friends? My friends? Or were they both my enemies?
I walked my slackline. When you walk a slackline, the whole point is to walk, not think. I wanted emptiness. But, unable to stop thinking about ghost stuff, I kept falling.
As I lay on the floor, I saw Uncle Charlie watching me from a corner. I didn’t know which I felt more, anger or fright. “You’re not my memory!” I yelled at him. “You’re a ghost. I’m not going with you.”
He vanished.
I had to talk to Jessica. But not knowing how to explain it, I kept putting it off.
Wednesday morning, as I was leaving for school, Mom said, “We still need so much. I’m coming home early to do some shopping. Can you give me a hand?”
“Sure.”
I went to school intending to talk to Jessica. I put it off again. It was like dodging the doctor, not because you’re fearful you’re sick, but because you worry the doc might tell you that you are very sick. In my case, I was afraid that Jessica would say that everything I dreaded was true. I decided—no—I was afraid—to talk to her. So I didn’t, not all day.
But when I left school at three o’clock, Jessica, her black backpack slung over her shoulder, was right there at the bottom of the steps talking to Mac. It was as if, sensing what I was doing, she was going to make sure it was impossible for me to avoid her.
I told myself it was Jessica I needed to talk to, not Mac. I found him annoying and didn’t understand their friendship. Short and pudgy, he followed her about like a plump ankle-biter dog, even though she was tall, trim, older-looking, self-assured.
Unsure what to do, I stood at the top of the school steps. Pretending I was listening to a message, I put my phone to my ear. All the while, I kept my eyes on Jessica.
She glanced around and offered her smile. I took the smile as saying something, that we two were connected in a special way. Then she must have told Mac to go off, because he went, waving good-bye to me.
Shoving my phone into a pocket, I came down the steps. Not that I intended to tell her about Uncle Charlie. She had nothing to do with him. It was the Penda Boy I needed help with.
“Hey,” she called. “you didn’t come to the club.”
“I had something to do,” I lied.
“When are we going to talk?”
Figuring I had no choice, I asked, “Have a good spot?”
“On Union,” she said, adjusting her backpack. “There’s a great yogurt place.”
“Let’s go.”
We started downhill. Like so many of the city streets, it was extremely steep. Jessica said, “You don’t like Mac.”
She seemed to notice everything. I said, “He’s okay.”
“He likes hanging around me. Hey,” she added, pushing hair away from her face, “those guys do what I tell them to do. You’re a lot stronger.”
Not knowing how to respond, but feeling I had to say something, I asked, “You live close?”
“The Richmond area. On Lake Street. In the morning, my mother drives me. End of day I take the bus home.”
“What does your father do?”
“Who knows? In Boston with his new family. Almost never see him. You live just six blocks from the school, don’t you?”
“An apartment,” I said. “How did you know?”
She shrugged. “People talk.”
What people?
I said, “Why do parked Frisco cars turn their wheels in, or out like that?”
“If their brakes fail, they won’t roll down the hill and kill anyone.”
I gave her a look.
“Happens. I was in an accident like that. I was okay, except I got my limp.”
“That’s amazing.”
“It’s an amazing city,” said Jessica, smiling. “Maybe that’s why I’m crazy. I was born here. Actually, I’m a distant relative of Mrs. Penda.”
“The school’s founder?” I said, glancing at her. I hadn’t thought about it before, but recalling the painting of Mrs. Penda, I did notice a resemblance.
“Can you see it?” she said, registering my gaze. “You’ve been studying that painting of her.”
“How do you know so much about me?”
“Mrs. Z. The school watchdog. She loves to gossip. Yeah, my family has lived here forever. In fact,” she went on, “there’s been at least one family member at the school since it began. That’s why I haven’t been kicked out.”
“Why would they do that?”
“Because I ask questions.”
“About what?”
“Those kids who disappeared from the school. Like Austin. The school’s big secret. I tried talking to Ms. Foxton. Know what she said? If people learned about the kids who disappeared, the school would collapse.
“Oh, something you should know,” Jessica said as we continued downhill. “All the kids who went missing were new.”
“New what?”
“To the school. From way back, it always happens in seventh grade.”
I stopped. “You mean . . . like me?”
She shrugged, looking at me with sympathetic eyes. I turned away, upset but wanting to learn more.
We walked on without talking until I said, “Okay, I want to know. Was it Ms. Foxton who told you my uncle Charlie died?”
“Is that who it was? Your uncle? You must have been close, because like I told you, you stink of death.”
I didn’t know what to say.
“Hey,” she said, bopping me on the arm, “some people are interested in life. I’m interested in death.”
“How come?”
“It happens to everyone, right? But it’s the one thing people want most to avoid. I know I do.”
Feeling we were talking like real friend
s, I said, “There’s something I haven’t told you.”
“What?”
“That old relative of yours, Mrs. Penda, she set up the school because her kid—the Penda Boy—died, right?”
“The first one to disappear.”
I said, “In the school office, there’s a painting of him.”
“Obvious.”
“But I’m pretty sure that kid I told you about, the one I saw in the tower, the kid in the painting, well, first day I came to class, he was sitting at the empty desk between you and Mac.”
She halted, mouth slightly open, eyes fixed on me. With a nervous flick of her hand, she shoved hair from her face. “You saying . . . you saw the Penda Boy in . . . class? Next to me?”
I nodded. She was rattled, something I hadn’t seen before.
“You . . . you ever see him again?” she asked.
“All over the school. Lots of times. Remember when Bokor was talking about ghosts, ghosts coming back and grabbing souls on Halloween? All of a sudden, he was there—sitting behind you, staring at me.”
I could have sworn Jessica was trembling. “You sure?”
“Swear,” I said, lifting a hand.
“Why didn’t you tell me before?”
“Wasn’t positive I was seeing him.”
“You were.”
“But how come I’m the only one seeing him?”
Without answering, Jessica started downhill again. It might seem strange, but I was glad she was upset. It was something we shared. Made me feel like I finally had a friend.
We arrived at the yogurt shop, got some, and sat down. From her backpack Jessica took out a pale blue tube of something, squirted out a pearl of it, and rubbed her hands and face with it.
“What’s that?”
“Moisturizer. Keeps me young-looking.”
“You’re not exactly old.”
“Told you. Don’t intend to be. Okay,” she said, putting the tube away, “want to know what I think? That kid you keep seeing, no question: he’s the Penda Boy’s ghost, and he’s after you.”
I put down my spoon. “Why me?”
“He wants your soul.”
My stomach tightened. “What do you mean?”
“Like Bokor said. It’s what happened to Austin. His kid brother died, so like you, Austin had death stink all over him. The Penda Boy grabbed him. Good-bye, Austin. With you, it’s your uncle Charlie.”