Manifest

by Artist Arthur

  Then there’s another table, right by the exit doors. A group of guys sit there. I don’t know where they live but they’re wearing all the latest hip-hop gear: oversize shirts, baggy jeans, boots—brown or black—and they always wear flashy watches or chains. They aren’t really called anything and the other students keep their distance from them. I don’t know if it’s just their clothes—which would be mad stupid—or the fact that a couple of the guys are known for their bad attitudes and willingness to beat down anybody that even looks at them sideways.

  Me, I live midway between the Richies and the no-names, those are the people who are considered middle class. We don’t have too much money but we have enough. I don’t dress like a goth or a geek but I’m definitely not a part of the hip-hop crowd either. So I sit at one of the center tables, which sometimes makes me feel like I’m on display. Usually I just pull out my bag lunch, slip my earbuds in and listen to my iPod for the forty-five minutes that’s our only designated downtime.

  So that’s what I’m doing today when my usually quiet table consisting of maybe one or two other no-names is invaded. I’ve already ignored my sandwich and only have my butterscotch crumpet and half a Sprite left from my lunch. I had pulled out the small sketchbook I carry around with me religiously but I hadn’t bothered to open it up yet. Ne-Yo is blasting from my iPod when I look up and notice who’s sitting across from me: Sasha Carrington—a Richie—and her faithful sidekick, Jake Kramer—a Tracker.

  In the months that I’d been at Settlemans, this was by far one of the weirdest hookups I’d seen. Sasha is Latina or something, I think, despite the Anglo surname. Her hair is dark with golden highlights. Her skin is this olive color that reminds me of people I see on television who come from, like, Greece or the Mediterranean or someplace like that. She always dresses nicely, mostly in designer clothes, and carries a huge designer bag and wears makeup. Jake, on the other hand, has a shaggy kind of look. He’s pale, with dark brown hair that always looks like it needs to be cut. Today is no different—with big curly locks falling low on his forehead, almost brushing his shoulder. A Richie and a Tracker—I wonder if they are a couple, like, boyfriend and girlfriend.

  “Hi,” Sasha says with her easy smile that makes her cheeks more prominent.

  I lift a hand to wave, not wanting to give the impression that I’m happy to see them sitting there.

  Jake waves back, the right corner of his mouth lifting in a shy smile.

  “Whatcha listenin’ to?” Sasha asks.

  I don’t really hear her. I’m just sort of reading her lips because my music is loud.

  “Ne-Yo.”

  Sasha nods. “‘So Sick of Love Songs?’”

  I shake my head. “No. ‘Miss Independent.’”

  “Oooh, the Jamie Foxx remix?” Jake asks.

  I nod.

  “Wanna go outside?”

  “No,” I quickly reply.

  “It’s loud in here,” Jake says.

  I shrug. I was fine before they came. If it’s too loud for them, they can go outside.

  They’re both quiet for a few minutes then Sasha stands and comes around the table. My hair is up in a ponytail as usual. Still I’m shocked when she taps the back of my neck and says, “Cool tat.”

  Frowning, I realize she’s referring to the birthmark on the back of my neck. It kind of looks like a cursive M. I know this because I’ve looked in the mirror to see it a time or two. And I guess since I always wear my hair up, other people can see it, as well.

  “It’s my birthmark,” I say, pulling away from her. It’s creepy the way she touches me, her fingers rubbing over the mark. I feel this weird stirring in the pit of my stomach, kind of like I need to throw up and then not.

  Sasha and Jake look at each other then back to me. “We should go outside,” she says. “To talk.”

  I’m confused. Why all of a sudden does Sasha, the Richie, want to talk to me? It doesn’t matter. I don’t want to talk to her.

  Just as I open my mouth to say something, the bell rings. I yank my earbuds out and shrug again. “Too late. Gotta get to class.”

  I scoop up my book bag, purse and trash and stand up to leave. Jake stands, too, coming around to the side of the table where I am.

  “We can talk after school. Sasha’s got a car. She only has her learner’s permit so she has to have a driver. But he lets her drive sometimes so she can take us both home.”

  Sasha rolls her eyes at Jake. I don’t really blame her. That was way too much information.

  Then I’m, like, what is this—some kind of threesome? I saw it one time on the X-rated channel my father had on his satellite television. Now I really feel like puking.

  I can feel my forehead scrunching up in a frown. “No thanks,” I say, turning away from him.

  “Krystal.”

  I hear Sasha calling my name as I try to keep walking. Other kids either eager to get to class or just tired of the noise of the cafeteria bump into me on their way out. She calls my name again and I stop, reluctantly, that funny feeling in my stomach rising again. I turn and Sasha and Jake are still standing in the same spot where I left them at the table.

  “We need to talk,” Sasha says, all serious-looking.

  “Whatever,” I say and keep moving. Those two are weird. Weirder than me, I guess. So I vow to steer clear of them. I’ve got enough troubles.

  Apparently the plan is for my troubles to just keep on piling up today. World History is my last class of the day. And while I usually kind of enjoy learning about different cultures and all the events that have brought us to this point, today I’m just not feeling it.

  It isn’t really the class. Mrs. Tremble is sitting behind her desk as usual, thin silver-rimmed glasses hanging on the bulbous tip of her nose, reading her lesson plan verbatim. That’s either because she is too old—really, she’s, like, in her eighties—or too round to stand up like the other teachers and write on the chalkboard.

  The desks are in a double U shape with everyone whose last name starts with a letter from the beginning of the alphabet in the inner U and the end of the alphabet in the outer semicircle. That puts Alyssa Turner right behind me. Her sidekick, Camy Sherwood, is sitting right beside her.

  Midway through the lesson on the Egyptian pyramids, I feel a little jolt and realize it’s somebody kicking my chair. I turn around to see Alyssa with her goddess black braids and eyeliner-etched eyes staring at me with a smirk on her face. Camy’s giggling. Her smile, which is lined with braces, catches the rays of the sun peeking through the windows, nearly blinding me.

  “Hey, new girl,” Alyssa says.

  I roll my eyes and turn back around. She kicks my chair again.

  “Not funny,” I whisper over my shoulder.

  “Yeah, you talking to Franklin’s definitely a joke. What makes you think you can just waltz into town and start taking our guys?”

  Was she serious? I mean, come on, the boy’s been following me around for weeks, looking at me and trying to talk to me. While I have been minding my own business.

  On the other hand, is she serious with that “taking our guys” comment? If I wanted to talk to a guy, which I do not, I could talk to whatever guy I wanted.

  “When I was in elementary school my mother used to label everything that belonged to me. As far as I could tell, Franklin didn’t have a name tag on.”

  Now I can’t tell if it’s my words—which I actually think are quite clever—or the fact that I had the nerve to respond at all that has Camy looking from me to Alyssa like her eyes are about to pop out of her head. Alyssa’s definitely a Richie; she’s head of the cheerleading squad and would probably be voted “Biggest Bitch” in the yearbook. Camy was like a puppet with Alyssa pulling her strings.

  “I don’t need to mark my territory. I’m not an animal,” Alyssa quips.

  Okay, she can apparently give as good as she gets. Unfortunately, I don’t even care enough to go another round with her. “Look, we talked. He walked me to my locker.
End of story. Nobody’s poaching on your territory.”

  “Just make sure you don’t, new girl.”

  The clapping of Mrs. Tremble’s ruler against her desk delays my response, which is cool because out of the corner of my eye I spot something, or should I say someone, else. Someone who definitely should not be in World History class or any other class for that matter.

  Sitting on top of the file cabinet, way in the back of the room, wearing the same clothes I saw him in last night, is Ricky. Okay, well, I guess spirits don’t have a change of clothes, so they spend eternity wearing the same outfit they died in. Gross.

  His arms are crossed over his chest and he’s looking down at me, of course. But then his gaze kind of shifts behind me to Alyssa and Camy. I wonder what he’s thinking.

  No. I don’t.

  I don’t care what he’s thinking or why he’s here. I don’t want to see him or talk to him. Or do I? I can’t help but notice again how cute he is.

  Mrs. Tremble’s voice drones on and on until finally, thankfully, the bell rings. I wasn’t taking any notes so grabbing my stuff only takes half a second. I’m turning, pushing my chair back and about to exit the row when Alyssa reaches out and forcefully grabs my elbow.

  “Look, don’t think because I let you slide once I’ll do it again. Know your place and stay in it.”

  I pull out of her grasp. “Get out of my face,” I say, giving her a look that I hope says I’m not playing. Because I’m not. There’s no way I’m going to fight over a boy, especially one I’m not even interested in. But I have no intention of letting her bully me either.

  I am already walking away when I hear her screeching something about “new girl,” then her voice sounds funny and she screams. Turning back, I see her just as her feet flip from under her and she hurls face-first to the floor.

  “Ohmigod, Alyssa! Are you all right?” Camy is right there, dropping her books and falling to her knees to help Alyssa, who is looking up, her eyes shooting daggers at me.

  As for me, I ignore the daggers and resist the urge to laugh at her fall. Why? Because I’m more stunned at the fact that Ricky’s standing right next to where Alyssa was a few seconds ago. His arms aren’t folded over his chest anymore. Instead his head is thrown back as he laughs. Nobody can hear the sound but me, just like nobody in that room knows he’s probably the one who pushed Alyssa.

  Great, now my ghost friend is fighting my battles.

  five

  I slam the door to my bedroom shut, not sure why I’m mad, just knowing that I want desperately to be alone.

  I get that feeling a lot—the wanting to be alone. It’s Friday, so I toss my books into a corner vowing not to touch them again until late Sunday night.

  Kicking my shoes off, I move toward my bed. Not because I’m sleepy but because I want to get off my feet. Lazy-teenager syndrome, Grandma Bentley calls it. I talked to her last week. She asked me to come to South Carolina to spend the summer with her. I didn’t answer because I don’t really want to go down South where heat waves suffocate the air twenty-four hours a day and the most exciting thing is riding to the Piggly Wiggly for a frozen fruit bar. Compared to that, Lincoln seems like a resort in the Bahamas.

  My thoughts of summer are interrupted by what I see on my bed. Right in the center of my puffy blue comforter is a sketch pad, charcoal tip pencils, markers and paints.

  Had Janet been reading my mind? Maybe she has some freaky power, too. How had she known I’d been thinking of drawing, something that once had seemed to be all I could think of? For a second my fingers tingle as I see the art supplies. I want to touch them, to pick them up and lose myself in my sketches.

  No. That was in my other life. The one where I was a normal—well, somewhat normal—teenager and all was well.

  All is definitely not well now, I say to myself as I use my arm to push the contents off my bed, ignoring the sound as they scatter on the floor so that I can lie down.

  I roll to my side, pulling my knees up to my chest, cradling my head on my folded arm and sigh.

  This is my life now. This is all I do.

  Go to school.

  Come home.

  Sleep.

  Think.

  You really need to get a life.

  I jump at the sound of his voice but don’t bother to turn to look at him before saying, “That’s cute coming from someone who’s dead.”

  He laughs and the butterflies in my stomach flutter. You didn’t like the gift your mother bought you?

  “How can you tell?”

  Well, it was rude to throw it on the floor no matter how you felt about it.

  “I didn’t ask for your opinion.”

  But I gave it to you anyway. You know how many kids would kill for their parents to do something nice for them—to give them something—anything at all?

  I did know and I felt like a heel. But I wasn’t about to tell him that. “What do you want, Ricky?”

  We covered that yesterday.

  “I’m not a cop. I don’t know how you expect me to help you.”

  You can start by getting out of bed. It’s not even five o’clock and you act like you’re in for the night.

  “That’s because I am.”

  That’s crazy. If I could, do you know what I’d be doing right now?

  I don’t know but I’m sure he’s going to tell me. Just a small part of me is curious. Who was Ricky Watson? Before he died, I mean. Who were his friends? What did he do in his spare time? Did he have a girlfriend?

  That last question comes out of nowhere and I feel my cheeks flush. Glad I didn’t say it aloud.

  It’s Friday so I’d probably shoot some hoops after school till around seven or eight. Then I’d run home, catch a shower and change, hit the streets for the night.

  “Hit the streets? And do what?”

  He shrugs. Maybe go to a club or catch a new movie. Or if I have a hottie on hand, I’d hook up with her.

  My heart plunges, taking a fall so steep I almost lose my breath. A “hottie”? He’d be with a “hottie.” I shake my head, waving my hand in his direction. What do I care if he’s with a “hottie” or not?

  “TMI. TMI.”

  He chuckles. No, that’s not too much information. I didn’t say what I’d do with the hottie when I hooked up with her.

  I turn my head away because instantly looking at him is making my chest hurt more. Why is that? I just met him. It’s not like we’re having some grand love affair. Not like he’s my first love. I’ve never even had a boyfriend. I’ve never been kissed—French or American. Then again, all this is nonsense, he’s some kind of poltergeist, remember?

  Look at you blushing, he teases. I’ll bet you’ve never even kissed a boy, have you, Krystal?

  I jump up off the bed, wondering if his kind can read minds. “Now that is definitely TMI!”

  He shrugs. You can tell me. I mean, who am I going to tell if you did? Did you let him get more than a kiss?

  I stalk across the room, my back to him, my head starting to ache slightly at the nerve he has to talk to me like this. Or is it the truth in those words that has my heart pounding?

  The truth shall set you free, I hear echoing from a distance in my head.

  “Look, I don’t care what you would have been doing if you hadn’t been shot up! All I know is you’re here now and it’s pissing me off.”

  He is quiet. So quiet that I might have thought he’d left but I can still feel him. It is funny how this spirit communication works. Then again, I’ve never really opened myself up to this troublesome quirk I seem to have. So I really have nothing to compare this incident with. And nobody to ask about it.

  Isn’t that the story of my life?

  Questions. Issues. Problems to solve. But nobody to talk to, nobody to give me advice or help me find the answers. Sometimes life just sucks.

  If you turn on your computer I can show you when I died and what they said about me.

  “I don’t care,” I say quickly. Too q
uickly and it sounds really rude.

  I need you to care, Krystal. You’re the only one who can help me.

  “Why?” I whirl around then, so fast I almost fall onto the floor. But I’m standing near my desk so I grab hold of the end to keep myself upright. “You’re the ghost. Why can’t you just fly around or vanish and reappear or whatever you do and haunt the people who did this to you? Make them tell the truth or something.”

  It doesn’t work that way.

  “Then what way does it work?” My voice grows higher and I know I need to calm down before Janet comes upstairs. She’s in the den, where she always is, either reading a book or staring out the window like the answer to her problems is out there. I guess we’re searching for the same thing, mother and daughter. We need answers. Or do we need help? Maybe we need both.

  I don’t really know, he says and moves closer to me. So close that I think I smell cologne. Something sweet but still like it’s made for a boy.

  I turn my head away from him.

  You won’t be able to run from me. I do know that.

  I look back at him feeling the anger bubbling inside me. “Why? Why won’t you leave me alone? I shouldn’t have to help you if I don’t want to.”

  You shouldn’t. But I think it’s your job or, like, your purpose.

  Just as I’m about to tell him I don’t have a job, as evidenced by my lack of money, and that I’ve never had a purpose besides being Janet and Calvin’s daughter, I hear footsteps on the stairs.

  My room is at the very top of the first landing of stairs. If the footsteps keep going then I’m safe. That means whoever it is will probably go down the long hallway into another room or keep going up the next flight of stairs to the exercise room.