by Vera Strange
“Hey, Malik, sign my yearbook!”
Jamal glanced over to see his brother surrounded by his adoring fan club. They were all clamoring for him, their books open, offering their pens. Meanwhile, nobody was asking for Jamal’s signature.
He slammed the book shut and hurried from the gym, not even bothering to ask anyone to sign his yearbook. He just couldn’t deal with any more humiliation in one day.
* * *
Jamal hid outside the school until the buses pulled up. He watched as Malik and his fan club boarded the bus. He followed them like a shadow. He still clutched his yearbook, though it really didn’t feel like his at all. He was barely in it, unlike Malik.
Maybe Colton was right about him. Maybe he was Invisible Boy.
Still limping from the gym incident, he started to board the bus when the door began to shut.
“Hey, kid, watch out!”
A hand shot out and stopped the door before it could slam into his injured leg.
Jamal looked back—it was Riley. Her dark brown eyes were fixed on him, set off by her manic purple hair. He wanted to say something cool, something that would impress her and make this day less terrible. Malik would know just what to say. He had the ability to charm anyone.
But all words—cool or not—evaporated from his brain. It was like he’d lost the ability to speak. The silence grew longer and more awkward.
“Uh…thanks,” was all he could muster before he darted up the steps and bolted for the back of the bus.
He slumped into the last row, feeling thoroughly humiliated. That was really the only word for it. He wanted so badly to talk to Riley. But every time he tried, it just made everything worse. He glanced around the bus, where all the other kids sat with their friends, goofing off and joking around. Jamal pulled up his hoodie and sank lower in his seat while the other kids chattered excitedly and signed each other’s yearbooks.
May as well embrace my invisibility powers, he thought as the bus tore off, lurching over the pockmarked streets. The latest hurricane had left them scarred, and the city had yet to repave.
His eyes flipped to the sky. It was clear blue with only a few harmless clouds, but the weather could always turn in a city like New Orleans. This had always been his home, but that didn’t make it an easy place to live. They had lost their previous house in a bad flood caused by the most recent big storm.
The bus made its way through the French Quarter. Jazz music drifted into the streets. Tourists stood in lines for famous beignets and Creole food. Tiana’s, the best restaurant in town, had a line snaking out the doors and onto the sidewalk, as always.
A few minutes later, when the bus reached the edge of the Quarter, a shop he’d never noticed before caught his eye. Oddly, it looked like it had been there a really long time. The sign read DR. FACILIER’S VOODOO EMPORIUM. Creepy dolls stared out from the shop’s window. He shifted around to get a better view. They looked like handmade dolls, stitched together from crude burlap cloth. Their heads appeared lumpy and misshapen. Jamal had seen these types of dolls before, of course, but these were more horrid than most. There was something almost captivating about them. Somehow Jamal couldn’t make himself look away.
And then the dolls looked at him.
His heart lurched. It couldn’t be. But it was. Their eyes all locked on his face, moving to stay on him as the bus inched forward. What? How was that possible? They couldn’t be—
Beep! Beep!
His phone went off in his pocket.
Jamal fumbled for it and hit silent, then jerked his head around to look back at the shop. But the Voodoo Emporium had passed out of sight, along with the odd dolls.
Probably just my imagination, he thought, though his heart was still pounding. Dolls couldn’t move like that. But he couldn’t shake the image of their eyes locking on to his face. To distract himself, he fished his phone out. His gaze landed on a new text message.
TO: MALIK & JAMAL
FROM: MOM
HOPE YOU HAD A GREAT DAY AT SCHOOL. YOU EACH RECEIVED A SPECIAL GIFT FROM YOUR GRANDMOTHER’S ESTATE. WE’LL OPEN THEM WHEN YOU GET HOME. LOVE & KISSES, MOM
Jamal had explained to his mother that she didn’t need to sign her text messages—that he knew who was texting by the contact name on top. But like most adults, she wasn’t very tech savvy.
He scanned the message again, feeling a shiver run up his spine. His grandmother had lived in one of those big old houses in the Garden District. She died just last month from a stroke, and they’d attended the funeral and wake. He could see her so clearly in his mind—black veils hiding her face and trailing long enough to cover her body, her gloved hands clutching a knobby cane.
Grandma had been allergic to sunlight and kept her whole body covered. He’d never even seen her face outside of the pictures the family had from before he was born. In those she was pretty, with dark skin already starting to wrinkle, and a wistful sort of smile. Now, she always kept herself hidden under veils. She also never left her house. According to his parents, his grandmother was a recluse.
As the bus barreled into their quaint little neighborhood on the outskirts of the city, heading for their house, Jamal stared at the text and another shiver rushed through him. He had never received a gift from a dead person before.
What could it be?
The smell of gumbo hit Jamal’s nostrils as soon as he stepped through the front door behind Malik. Rich, garlicky, spicy, meaty. It was unlike any other smell in the world. To Jamal, it smelled like home.
His mouth immediately started watering. Their dad, tall and broad-shouldered, with his hair freshly styled in perfect short twists, was stirring the contents of a big cast-iron pot on the stove with precision and loving care. That pot had been in their family for generations, same as their secret family gumbo recipe.
The screen door slammed shut behind him with a thwap!
Their mother looked up from a stack of bills on the kitchen table, a colorful scarf tied around her hair to protect her dark curls, the way she always wore it on days she worked from home. “Go wash up, boys. Dinner will be ready soon.”
The local news blared on the small television wedged onto the kitchen counter. “Hurricane Donald threatens New Orleans…. The category three storm is gaining strength as it barrels through the Gulf…. Could become a category five.” Jamal’s eyes locked on to the image of the distinctive cloud formation swirling over the ocean, tracking toward their city. He felt a tingle in his fingertips. That was so strange. He had just been thinking about the devastating storm that had destroyed his childhood home, and now another one was coming right for them.
Hurricanes had always fascinated him; they were another science puzzle he wanted to solve. They formed when warm, moist air from the ocean encountered cooler air. A hurricane was caused by the convergence of divergent forces that, when put together, could produce extreme devastation.
“Carter, turn that off,” Mom said when she caught Jamal watching the screen. She dropped her voice. “We don’t need to worry the kids. You know what we went through with that last storm. They’ve been through enough already.”
She didn’t need to lower her voice. Jamal knew what they had gone through. How could he forget? The water had rushed up from their basement, flooding the house. That was why they’d had to move to the outskirts of town. This house was farther from where their grandmother had lived in the Garden District, too. She’d died only a few short weeks after their move, before the city had even finished cleaning up from the storm. Jamal had always wondered if her stroke had something to do with the storm that had battered her beloved New Orleans.
Jamal followed Malik through the living room, where there was an old sofa and matching chairs, both a hideous shade of orange their mom considered stylish. The fireplace mantel was filled with family photographs. Jamal’s gaze skimmed the familiar images. They all featured Malik doing something impressive—playing basketball, performing on trumpet in a concert, holding up a perfect report card
. If Jamal was in the pictures at all, he was always in the background.
It was exactly like the yearbook. Just like everything else in his life. Malik stood out, while Jamal lurked in the shadows. He tore his eyes away from the family pictures, but not before he caught sight of a recent group photo of all his smiling cousins, aunts and uncles, and at the center was his grandmother, covered in black veils.
Jamal shuddered again. While most of his friends had warm, loving grandparents, his grandmother had been different. In fact, they had barely ever spoken. His mother always made excuses for her mom’s odd behavior. “She’s been through a lot. She prefers silence and darkness now.”
But what had she been through, exactly? Why was she a recluse? Why did she refuse to leave her big, drafty house? Why did she hide under all those black veils, even when the sun wasn’t out? What—or whom—was she hiding from?
But none of these questions had an answer. At least, not an answer he could get from his parents. His mom didn’t like to talk about their grandmother.
He followed Malik into their bedroom. Two twin beds and matching dressers took up most of the room. Malik flopped onto his bed, covered with a superhero comforter, and flipped through his yearbook.
“You get any good ones?” he asked, holding the book open to a page filled with signatures from his fan club.
Jamal felt envy singe his heart, even though he knew it was wrong.
“Yeah, a whole bunch,” he said, quickly stowing his yearbook in his dresser to hide the lie. “Uh, I’ll show you later.”
Malik had already defended him once that day. The last thing Jamal needed was more pity. His brother meant well, of course, but it only made everything worse. His eyes fell on the story he had written in English class the previous day, sitting on the dresser. It was about a prince kissing a frog and turning it into a princess, a twist on the old fairy tale. He called it The Prince and the Frog. He’d also changed the setting to New Orleans. He had always wanted his parents to read his writing, but he’d never been brave enough to show it to them. He took a deep breath and reached for the pages. Maybe he’d show the story to them after dinner.
“Kids, dinnertime!”
Their father’s voice echoed through the small house. Their last house had been bigger, and Jamal had had his own bedroom. But he secretly preferred sharing a room with Malik, even though it meant less space. He didn’t say it often, but he loved his brother, and he hated that he felt dark feelings about him sometimes. He did his best to keep them stuffed down in his heart, but they always had a way of spilling out stronger than before.
“Did you hear your father?” their mother called. “Dinner’s getting cold.”
That was their second warning. And it came from Mom. That meant they needed to get in there. Now.
“Hey, let’s go eat,” Jamal said, then grinned. “If you can tear yourself away from all those autographs.”
Malik chuckled. “Well, I still don’t have the most important one.” He pointed to a blank corner. “I saved you a prime spot. You’d better sign it.”
* * *
After helping their father do the dishes, including scrubbing the stubborn residue from the gumbo pot, their mother set two wooden boxes on the kitchen table in front of Jamal and Malik. “These are the special gifts your grandmother left for you.”
Jamal studied the boxes, feeling a rush of anticipation despite his earlier fears. The box in front of Malik was larger and longer. Its polished wood surface was carved with the image of an alligator playing a trumpet.
But his box was different. It was smallish—about four inches by four inches. The wooden surface was also carved, but not with a cheerful image like his brother’s box. Instead, a creepy skull stared back at him. The eye sockets were gouged out, as if with a crude tool, leaving deep scratch marks. He felt his pulse skip.
What did the images mean?
“Look, I know your grandmother could be a bit…strange,” their mother said, struggling for words. Their father walked over and placed his hand on her shoulder in a show of support.
“The old lady never talked to us, really,” Malik snorted, “let alone remembered our birthday.”
“Yeah, it wasn’t like she had to remember more than one,” Jamal added, “since we were born on the same day.”
A sad expression passed over their mother’s face. “Like I said, she went through some things. And she was never the same after. I’m sorry you didn’t meet her when she was younger. She wasn’t always so withdrawn.”
“Yeah, me too,” Malik said, casting his gaze down. “Mom, sorry I said that. It wasn’t very nice.”
She shook her head. “No, you deserved better.” She patted his box. “But maybe this will make up for it.”
Then she slid an official-looking document across the table.
From the Estate of Norah J. Wilkins.
Jamal’s eyes scanned the document with the fancy lawyer logo at the top.
“This is from the attorney representing her estate,” their mother continued. “You each have to sign to confirm receipt of your inheritance.”
Jamal quickly scrawled his name. The pen felt slippery in his sweaty fingers. Then he passed it to his brother. His attention returned to the mystery boxes. Anticipation built inside him like water rising behind a levee, threatening to break through it.
“Okay, Malik first,” their mother said, as if this wasn’t always how it went. “Go ahead, Son. Open it.”
Malik took a deep breath, then slowly cracked open the wooden box. The top pivoted smoothly on hinges built into the box, revealing—
A trumpet.
An antique one, from the looks of it. The brassy surface shimmered like it had just been polished to a high shine.
“Oh, cool!” Malik said, lifting it out of the velvet-lined interior. He raised it to his lips and blew a few tentative notes. They sailed out effortlessly, painting the air with their melody.
“Wow, it sounds amazing,” Malik said. He played a few more notes.
“That trumpet has been in our family for generations,” their mother explained. “Your grandfather was a jazz musician. And his father. And his father’s father. They were all jazz musicians who played the trumpet.”
“And then your mother married me,” their father said with a chuckle. He held up his large hands. “Ever heard of two left feet? I’ve got two left hands.”
“Yeah, but you can cook like a fiend,” their mother said with a twinkle in her dark eyes. “I’ll take that any day.”
They locked eyes and smiled, lovey-dovey as always.
“Uh, is it my turn now?” Jamal asked, feeling like he might burst if he had to wait even a second longer.
His mom looked over in surprise, almost like she had forgotten he was still sitting there. “Oh, right, Jamal. Your turn. Go ahead, open your gift.”
Jamal licked his lips, feeling a rush of adrenaline. He tasted metal on his tongue. He glanced over at the trumpet, feeling even more excited. If Malik got something that cool, then he was willing to bet whatever was in his box was good.
Slowly, he cracked open the lid. A musty odor drifted out, making his nose itch. He sneezed sharply. His watering eyes fell on the gift inside. It was…
A necklace.
And not just any necklace—he realized as he lifted it out of the box—a creepy old skull necklace. He ran his fingers over the skull. Its smooth texture sent an awful shiver up his arm.
Was it carved from real bone?
The skull hung from a thick chain with feathers and beads affixed to it, giving the whole piece an even creepier appearance. Jamal felt repulsed by the gift. He couldn’t help it. He didn’t even wear jewelry, let alone something like this. It was beyond ugly. Also, if he wore it to school, he was sure to get Colton’s attention—and not in a good way.
That’s the last thing I need.
He glanced at Malik, who was still focused on his trumpet. Envy stirred in Jamal’s heart for the millionth time. It just wasn
’t fair.
Why did his brother get the perfect gift, while his grandmother left him a stupid necklace? He couldn’t win.
“Well, would you look at that,” his mom said, gazing at the necklace. Her eyes teared up. “Your grandmother left you her special necklace. You know, she never took that off. She wore it until she died.”
“Uh, yeah,” Jamal forced himself to say. “That’s so…thoughtful of her.”
He wanted to say something else. Something less nice. But he knew better than to upset his mother and held it in.
“Look, there’s a note,” Malik said, pointing at Jamal’s box.
Sure enough, a card was nestled inside the red velvet lining. Jamal lifted it out. It was printed on thick cardstock embossed with his grandmother’s initials. Her ornate cursive handwriting stained the cream-colored card.
Beware of the shadows. This will protect you.
Jamal frowned at her note. What did it mean? It didn’t make any sense. But then he remembered what his mother had said about his grandmother not being right in the head, especially near the end of her life. The skull necklace, the card…they probably didn’t mean anything.
“Weird old woman,” he muttered, careful not to let his mother hear him.
Malik started playing his trumpet, whipping out an old jazz standard. With the new instrument, his brother sounded even better than ever. His parents clapped enthusiastically, transfixed by his brother’s playing. “Play another song!” they exclaimed.
Jamal wanted to clap, too, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Envy was a powerful brew, bitter but strangely tasty. Why did Malik always have to be so good at everything and get all the attention? Any plan to show his story to his parents evaporated. They’d never even read it.
Jamal was about to throw the skull necklace back into the box, annoyed that he’d been tricked into thinking something good might actually happen to him for once, when suddenly the skull’s eye sockets flickered with red light.
Jamal jerked his hand back in shock. Had he really just seen that?
