Ghost Boys

by Jewell Parker Rhodes

  Scared, I step backwards. He nods, like he expected it; then, disappears.

  He’s not in the kitchen. My hands pass through the glass pane. I see the starry night sky, the darkened road, streetlamps attracting bugs.

  Across the street, I see him. Wispy like soft rain. A ghost?

  Like me?

  CHURCH

  It’s awful spending days in the apartment, everybody angry and mourning. Awful not being able to lie on my bed. Or eat. Or speak.

  I can’t sleep. No rest for the dead.

  I watch my family crying, talking in whispers. Ma seems like she’s sleepwalking—shuffling about the apartment like she’s still looking for me. Pop is always shouting into the phone. Talking to lawyers, newspaper folks. I can’t think of anything worse than watching my family hurt.

  At night, the living room fills with shadows. Misshapen, ugly things. I don’t go into my bedroom. Too sad. Ma sleeps there now. Kim, whose bed is the couch, whimpers while she dreams. Afraid to sleep, Grandma stares at the ceiling. Pop, tangled in sheets, sleeps on his back, both arms crossed over his eyes.

  No one rests well.

  Is there someplace I’m supposed to go? I hope it’s heaven. A good place. But I’m still here—which is nowhere, not able to help anybody.

  Grandma hums gospel and wherever I move, she seems to know. She looks at me standing near the television. She turns when I follow Ma into the kitchen. She leans forward, humming louder when I sit on the chair beside Pop.

  If she could really see me, I’d be alive and she’d be telling me to “clean my room,” “take out the trash,” “wash my hands.” I miss her ordering me to do chores. Or saying, “Homework. No TV.”

  Today, Ma, Pop, Kim, and Grandma dress for church. It’s my funeral. I sit with them in a black Cadillac—it’s the nicest car I’ve ever been in.

  “An open casket,” murmurs Ma. “‘I want the whole world to see what they did to my boy.’ Isn’t that what Mrs. Till said? Isn’t it?”

  Grandma gets out of the car first, then Kim, Ma, Pop. Then me. Grandma whispers at the air, “Time to get going, boy. Time to move on.”

  I’m stunned hearing Grandma speak to me. But I can’t move on. I don’t know how. Or where to move on to. How am I supposed to know how to be dead?

  I follow them up the steps. Kim reaches for Pop to pick her up. He does and she buries her face in his neck.

  “Señor Rogers. Sir, sir.” It’s Carlos. My new friend. (Old friend now.)

  Pop doesn’t hear him—he’s busy comforting Kim—but Grandma does. She waves Carlos to her. Wiping tears, he hands her a piece of paper. Grandma looks at it. She presses the paper to her heart, then hugs Carlos—a big stomach-crushing hug, the kind she used to give me when she was happiest.

  The thick church doors open.

  Organ music swells. “Amazing Grace,” Grandma’s favorite.

  Carlos runs down the steps. He’s still wearing a hoodie. Never mind the cold and snow.

  Deacons and church ladies in white dresses swarm about my family, fanning them, guiding them from the vestibule into the church.

  I start to follow. Suddenly, my ghost friend is beside me.

  “Don’t go in there. You don’t want to see.”

  “Who’re you?”

  “Someone I wish you didn’t know.”

  I stare. His skin is paper-thin, dull. His shoulders are broad; his cheekbones, high. His clothes are funny. Old-timey. He’s wearing a white shirt with a tie. He holds a rimmed hat.

  “I’m you.”

  Nothing makes sense. I reach out to touch him. Maybe ghosts can touch ghosts?

  He disappears.

  I sit on the church steps. Stay outside.

  Maybe it’s better this way? Not seeing myself in a casket. I try to imagine what Carlos wanted to give Pop. What Grandma saw.

  What would, just for a second, make Grandma happy at my funeral?

  December 8

  School

  Mr. Myers is one of only two men who teach in the whole middle school. I know he wasn’t a cool kid. He keeps making it hard for us uncool kids. It’s like he didn’t learn anything growing up.

  Right now, he’s introducing a new student. Seriously. Like standing in front of the class is going to make you feel welcome. It’s like giving a kid a sign saying KICK ME. The new kid knows. He looks grim. He wears baggy jeans and a hoodie. His hood’s up. Mr. Myers pulls it down and you can see curly black, shoulder-length hair, almost like a girl’s. I groan.

  “Carlos is from San Antonio, Texas,” chimes Mr. Myers. “He’s lucky. He had classes in Spanish and English.

  “Eddie, you speak Spanish, don’t you?”

  “I speak Dominican. Don’t know Texas Spanish.”

  Everyone in the class snickers. Carlos’s face reddens.

  Mr. Myers blinks. “It’d be nice if everyone helped Carlos feel welcome here in Chicago.”

  Everyone groans. Mr. Myers is making everything worse—making him stand out, be needy, expecting us kids to help when all we want to do is survive.

  Hopeful, Mr. Myers scans the room.

  Carlos looks like he’s going to cry. He’s not tough enough for this school. I feel sorry for him.

  “Hola,” I say, then wince. What’s the matter with me?

  Carlos smiles. Mr. Myers acts like he wants to shake my hand. He points for Carlos to sit in a chair next to me.

  There’s always empty chairs near me.

  I glance back at Eddie. He makes a fist, twisting it in his palm. He’s going to kill me. It won’t be as bad as Carlos’s beating. New students are beat-down magnets.

  In Chicago, some kids speak Spanish at home, never at school. On Parent Night, if Eddie has to speak Spanish to his mom, he covers his mouth and whispers. He thinks speaking Spanish in school isn’t cool. He makes faces when his mom tries to talk with his teachers.

  I wish I could speak another language. “Hola” is all I know.

  Truth is, I have enough trouble speaking the right words in English and not having crews like Eddie, Snap, and Mike picking on me, saying, “Stuck-up.” “Teacher’s pet.” All because I don’t act bored, disrespectful in class, or pushy, loud at recess.

  I wish I were done with middle school. I get tired of dreaming about how life’s going to be different when I grow up. Right now, it’s stupid, stupid, stupid.

  “Hey. Hey!”

  I walk faster, trying to escape Carlos.

  “Lunch?”

  Carlos tugs my arm. Dead winter, his hoodie isn’t going to protect against the cold. I take pity on him. It’s not his fault his family moved to Chicago.

  “This is how you do it,” I say. “Follow me.” I walk quick and Carlos follows me into the cafeteria. “No mushy food. No plates.”

  Carlos nods. Then, wary, he looks around for Eddie. I don’t tell him Mike punches the hardest. Snap likes to bite.

  “Don’t slow me down,” I warn.

  I cut the line; some kids howl; I don’t care. Being patient during lunchtime can get me whipped. I grab a sandwich, apple, and carton of milk. Carlos does the same.

  There’s stitching on his T-shirt.

  Our school gets all kinds of poor. There’s a little bit poor, more poor, then poorer than poor.

  My family’s a little bit poor as long as both my parents work. Carlos’s family might be worse.

  I think: Today is a red-hot EMERGENCY. Without Carlos, it’d just be yellow.

  “Come on.” I run; Carlos follows, tripping up flights of stairs.

  “Here.” The bathroom on the highest floor is nearly always empty. Kids like to walk down, not up.

  Usually I take the stall furthest away, next to the window, but I let Carlos have it. “Plant your feet on the seat. No one can see your shoes. Eat.”

  Carlos stares at me like I’m crazy.

  “It works.”

  I go into the next stall, lock the door, and unwrap my sandwich. I listen close. After a minute, I hear Carlos unwrap his
sandwich. I wonder if he got tuna fish?

  “Thanks.”

  “No problem.”

  School toilets don’t have covers. We both squat over toilet water eating sandwiches. My apple is in my pocket. Milk balances on the toilet paper roll. Funny, it feels better not doing this by myself. Less lonely.

  “Bearden isn’t a bad school,” I say, trying to be helpful.

  “In San Antonio, school’s always trouble. Everyone fights. Everyone’s afraid. I hope it’s better here.”

  The tuna’s dirt dry. I almost choke. “We fight here, too,” I say, honest. “That’s why we have security guards. Metal detectors.”

  I hear Carlos breathing. He knows what I’m saying.

  Chicago is probably worse than San Antonio.

  “I wasn’t trying to lie, Carlos. Not really. I didn’t want you to feel bad.”

  Carlos laughs. “It’s okay. Maybe every school is bad? But, here? Lunch over a toilet? That’s a new one.”

  I laugh. What can I say? The bathroom is my favorite hiding place. No one looks for me here. Even if a kid comes in, they don’t bother with the end stalls. I stay quiet until I hear a flush, hand washing, and the door swinging open and shut.

  I smack the green stall. Carlos smacks back. Smack… smack. I add syncopated slaps. He does, too. Slap-a-slap-slap. I slap. He slaps. Slap-slap-slap. Smack, goes Carlos. Smack. Smack. Slap. Carlos hums, whistles.

  Soon, we’re playing a rhythm on the graffiti-covered stalls like we’re playing bongos. I decide Carlos is cool. He’s smart enough to latch on to me. If I was new, I’d latch on to someone, too.

  “Amigo?” he asks, tentatively.

  Friend? I’m not sure how to answer.

  Middle school is like a country. Alliances are hard, dangerous. Other kids’ fights become your fights. You have to worry about your friends’ friends, their gangs on the streets and in school. Everyone’s in a crew. Except me.

  Sure, I get picked on—mostly when Mike, Eddie, and Snap are bored. I’m an easy target. They can bully me but not have to war with any friends. The only advantage of being lonely is not worrying about being anyone else’s backup.

  “Friend?” Carlos asks again. “If this were San Antonio, I would’ve said hi to you.” He pauses. “We can look out for each other.”

  I shudder. I can’t see his face. But I hear the hope. By fifth grade, I gave up on friends. It’s pathetic. Seventh grade, Carlos is still hoping to be cool. To have a friend.

  “I didn’t want to move, but my dad’s a foreman now. For River North Construction. It’s a big deal. Good for my family. More money. My mom’s having a baby.” Carlos quiets.

  I can tell he’s a worrier. His voice strains like mine. He probably tries to be good all the time, too.

  Carlos blurts, “I didn’t have friends in San Antonio. It isn’t fair to live in two different cities and not have any friends.”

  “Yes,” I say, not believing myself. Not believing I’d risk it. “Friends.”

  We can’t see each other’s faces, but I know we’re both smiling.

  I think Mr. Myers would be proud of me. Grandma, too.

  “Sssh.” The bathroom door squeaks, then slams. Whack. Even though I can’t see him, I sense, like me, Carlos freezes.

  Rubber soles squeak, boots stomp (Mike!), and then bam, they hit a bathroom stall door. “Empty,” hollers Snap.

  Bam. Bam. Bam, bam.

  Bam. They hit my stall door. It’s locked. I see Snap’s Air Jordans, Mike’s boots. Eddie bends, trying to see in. I keep still. He can’t see above the toilet’s base.

  Bam. The last door flies open. No-no-noooooo. Carlos didn’t lock the stall door.

  “Got you,” Eddie crows.

  “Stop, stop.” Mike is dragging Carlos. I can see his legs kicking, hear him gripping, grasping, trying to cling on, stay in the stall. “Leave me alone.”

  I slide the lock. “Leave him alone!” I holler.

  Eddie pushes me and I fall onto the toilet, scrambling to stay dry.

  Carlos is crying. I rush out, pulling Mike off him. Mike punches me. Eddie grabs my collar.

  “Stop, leave him alone.”

  “You’re nothing in Chicago. Say it.” Snap twists Carlos’s arm. “Say it, ‘I’m nothing.’”

  Carlos glares.

  “You’re a jerk.” Snap twists harder. “A pimple like Jerome.” Mike and Eddie laugh.

  Angry, Carlos jerks free. His leg swings back. “Don’t,” I warn. Carlos kicks. Snap howls, grabs his knee. Carlos punches, but his fist barely hits Snap’s shoulder.

  Mike punches Carlos. He falls backwards. Then, Mike and Snap are both kicking Carlos. In the stomach. The head.

  Carlos is twisting, his arms flailing. Eddie holds me back. I tug hard. “I’m telling,” I scream. I don’t care if I’m a snitch. “I’m going to tell.”

  Eddie slams me against the wall.

  All three look at me, faces snarled. They’re furious. They didn’t expect me to stand up to them.

  I’m shaking. At least Carlos isn’t getting kicked. But they’re going to hurt me. Really hurt me. Scared, I brace myself.

  I’m not going to beg.

  Eddie laughs. His goofy, creepy laugh. Mike shoves my shoulder. “Don’t tell anybody,” he threatens.

  “Yeah,” adds Snap. “You won’t be telling anybody anything.”

  “Muerto.”

  We all turn. Carlos has a gun.

  Preliminary Hearing

  Chicago Courthouse

  April 18

  It’s April. I’m four months dead.

  In the courthouse, I feel clammy and cold. Not weather cold, just empty cold. I’m stuck. Stuck in time. Stuck being dead.

  Ma, Grandma, and Pop are in the courtroom’s front row behind the prosecutor. Reporters, sketch artists, Reverend Thornton, officers, and community folks fill the rest of the seats. Right behind the lawyer’s desk are a white woman and a girl, her daughter, maybe. Both have sandy-brown hair. Both look sad.

  There’s no jury—just empty seats.

  The judge isn’t tall, about the same height as my ma. She wears black shoes. Her nails are painted pink.

  “Preliminary hearings,” she says, “don’t determine innocence or guilt. They determine whether there is enough evidence for a trial. Whether Officer Moore should be charged with murder.”

  Seems lame to me. I’m dead, aren’t I?

  A policeman is sitting in the dock, below the judge’s chair. He has sandy-brown hair, too. Glazed, blue eyes. A lawyer is saying something to him but he’s not listening, just looking at the woman and girl. His family, I think.

  “Officer Moore, can you answer the question?”

  “Sir?” The officer looks at the slim man.

  “Were you in fear for your life?”

  “Yes, yes. He had a gun.”

  “Were you surprised later when the gun turned out to be a toy?”

  “Yes. It looked real. He was threatening me.”

  I shake my head. I never pointed a gun at the policeman. I walk closer to the officer. Why’s he telling lies?

  The girl in the front row points at me, whispers to her mother. I look at the girl, her eyes wide with fear. Like her dad was scared of me?

  Her mother shushes her. Shoves her hand down.

  The prosecutor continues, “How old was the assailant?”

  “I thought at least twenty-five. He was a man. A dangerous man.”

  “So you were doing your job as trained?”

  “Yes.”

  “Were you upset to discover the man was a boy? A twelve-year-old boy?”

  Ma starts moaning, crying, soft yet sharp.

  “I was surprised. He was big, hulking. Scary.”

  “You felt threatened?”

  The officer pauses. I’m staring right into his eyes. He looks through me. He’s studying his wife and daughter. His daughter is studying me. I don’t know why or how she sees me.

  He swallows, his tongue licking his b
ottom lip. “I… felt… threatened.”

  Pop stands, shouting, “A grown man. Two grown men. You. Your partner, Officer Whitter. Armed. Threatened by a boy?”

  Ma wails.

  The woman judge pounds her gavel. “Quiet. Quiet in the courtroom.”

  “Black lives matter!” someone hollers.

  “Jerome mattered,” shouts Grandma. “He was a good boy.”

  “Order. Order!” yells the judge. Security guards move toward my parents. I collapse on the floor, feeling like I’ve been shot again. I’m furious.

  There’s no order. Only swirls of noise, wailing, shouts, and commands. The court artist is sketching furiously. Reporters are pushing, shoving, shouting questions: “Can there be justice?” “Officer Moore, are you sorry?” “Mrs. Moore, can you tell us how you feel? Did your husband do right?”

  I don’t hear any answers. What does it matter if Officer Moore is sorry? If his wife is sorry? If the whole world is sorry?

  I stare at the ceiling. It’s painted blue.

  “I see you.”

  I’m shocked. This white girl is standing, staring right at me.

  Mouth shaped like an O, she trembles. Her eyes are crystal blue; she’s not a ghost; she’s Officer Moore’s daughter.

  What does it mean?

  Not cool.

  Why can’t it be Kim who sees me? Why this stupid girl?

  December 8

  Gun

  Carlos waves the gun wildly, pointing at Eddie, Mike, and Snap. I back away, moving to the left, closer to the hall door. I should’ve known better. Friends get you in trouble.

  “Leave me alone. I mean it.” Carlos scrambles to his feet.

  “We were just playing,” says Mike.

  “No need to be upset,” adds Snap.

  Eddie stares. “How’d you get a gun in school?”

  Carlos doesn’t answer.