Without rest, I wander and watch. See a world that’s no longer mine.
Carlos was trying to make me happy. And I was happy for a bit.
If I’d known I was going to die, would I have become his friend?
Truth is—even though it didn’t last long, it was nice to have a friend.
CARLOS
Since school ended, since Kim said, “You have to tell Grandma,” I haven’t seen Carlos. I stand on the school steps and think, Carlos.
Within seconds, I’m in an apartment bedroom.
Carlos is lying on his bed, his hands covering his eyes. He isn’t sleeping. Every now and then his right leg twitches. He sniffs.
Wind billows, flaps the curtains. On Carlos’s dresser are candlesticks, a drawing of a toy gun, a sandwich wrapper from the school cafeteria, a drumstick, and another drawing of two bathroom stalls with me and Carlos both inside, slapping, pounding, playing percussion on the plastic partition. There’s a silver cross dangling from black rosary beads. And a school photograph—me, from seventh grade, cut from the Chicago Tribune.
It’s a memory altar. Like Grandma’s. Except hers has an upright cross and old black-and-white photographs of her and Grandpa Leni. Grandpa’s been dead a long time. Since I was born. But every Sunday, Grandma lights candles and talks to a picture of Grandpa in a sailor’s uniform. He looks good in his bright white sailor’s cap and bell-bottom pants. Handsome, he’s got a wide nose and big smile.
Grandma tells Grandpa about her week. How her feet hurt, how she misses him, how Kim got a 90 percent in spelling. I’m sure she told him about my dying.
“Folks are going to think you’re crazy,” Ma insists. “Talking to a picture.”
I hope Carlos will talk to me.
I focus. I moved Sarah’s book. How hard would it be to lift and let paper fly?
Hard.
I was angry when I moved Sarah’s book. I’m not angry anymore.
Watching Carlos, alone in his room, nothing much in it except the bed, dresser, and altar, I feel sad. I wish he had toys, books. A drum set. Wish I could give him the posters from my room.
Focus, I think. Friends forever. Always. Amigos.
My newspaper photo flutters. Lifts, then falls. Flutters some more.
Friends forever. Always.
The paper lifts and flies, soars like a feather, landing softly on Carlos’s stomach.
He sits up. Holds the paper. Searches the room. “Jerome?”
I’m standing right in front of him.
He stretches out his hand. “You forgive me?”
“Carlos.” The door opens. “You all right?”
“Yes, Papi.”
The two look alike. Sable eyes. Black hair, black lashes. Neither is tall but I can tell Carlos is going to be strong like his dad.
“Go outside. Play. Otherwise I’ll think you want to go back to San Antonio.”
“Here’s fine.”
“You still worried about that boy?” He points at my picture.
“No. Not anymore,” says Carlos, staring beyond me. “His name was Jerome. My first Chicago friend.” Then Carlos starts crying. Deep, gulping sobs.
“Carlos, what’s wrong?” Sitting on the twin bed, his dad holds him. Carlos tells him the whole story. Frightened of a new school. Bullies. The toy gun.
“Gun?” His dad pulls back angrily, his jaw tightening. He inhales. I think he’s going to blast Carlos.
“Papi, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
He closes his eyes. “You shouldn’t have to go to school scared.”
“I’m not scared anymore, Papi. Really.” Carlos comforts his father. “Jerome helped. Helps.” He looks at the space where I’m standing.
“You should’ve told me you were scared.”
“I was ashamed.”
“Never be. You’re a good son. Everyone gets scared sometimes. It’s how you handle it that matters.” His dad closes his eyes again, like he wants to unsee what he’s imagining. “It could’ve been you.”
Carlos gasps. He hasn’t thought of himself dead. Terror-stricken, he trembles. He clutches his dad’s hand. A small hand clasped tightly by a larger hand. I place my hand on top of theirs. Neither feel me.
“I’ve got to tell Jerome’s family. Him dying was my fault.”
“Do you want me to come?”
I know Carlos wants to say, Yes, come. Instead, he says, “I’ll do it.”
His dad hugs him. “A good friend knows you didn’t mean for anything bad to happen.”
“Sí. Jerome was a good friend.”
“His family will understand. They’ll feel sad, but they’ll understand.”
“Really?”
“Really,” I whisper.
“Day of the Dead,” Carlos says. “I want to honor Jerome.” Then, Carlos, eyes squinting, looks up. “Honor you, Jerome. Always.” Maybe he does feel me? He nods.
I nod, though he doesn’t see.
“Day of the Dead. Can we do that, Papi?”
“Bring San Antonio to Chicago?”
Carlos nods.
“Sure. We’ll honor Jerome for being good to my boy.” Carlos’s father ruffles his hair. “I know you tried being good to him.”
“I did.”
You did.
CARLOS & GRANDMA
From the upstairs window, Kim sees Carlos coming. Her bedroom curtains flutter, then the front door opens. She must’ve run fast as lightning.
“Now?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll help.”
“No, it’s okay.”
“Jerome would want me to.”
Carlos’s eyes widen. “Thanks, Kim.”
I follow them into the living room. Carlos stops, grins at Grandma’s altar. She’s placed Carlos’s drawing of me next to her and Grandpa’s wedding picture. A vase holds a fresh pink carnation. Carlos is pleased; Kim guides him into the kitchen.
Home seems odd, unfamiliar. Like a fading dream, I can’t imagine living here. Such a tight, confining space, not expansive like the ghost world.
I’ve changed. There’s no going back. I’m ghost boy now.
“Grandma, look who’s here.”
“Carlos.” Grandma stops chopping carrots. She grabs a plate covered in foil. “Cookie?”
“No. No, thanks.”
“You’ve got to have one. Sit. Kim, get the milk.”
Sorrowful, Kim looks at Carlos as he uncomfortably sits at the table.
I stand by the sink.
“Jerome used to like chocolate chip,” says Kim. “But these are oatmeal raisin. You can dip them in milk.”
“Thanks, Kim,” says Carlos, dipping the cookie in the glass she’s given him. He bites.
Poor Carlos. His face twists. Just like me and my tuna fish (the last food I ate), his cookie tastes like dirt.
“Jerome should’ve brought you home. I was afraid he didn’t have friends. Jerome was good, but a bit quiet. He kept to himself.” Grandma smiles.
“You were his good friend?” She reaches for Carlos’s hand.
“I was his good friend,” says Carlos; he swallows, blurts, “I gave him the gun.”
Stunned, Grandma freezes.
“I didn’t mean any harm. It was just a toy.”
Kim pats Grandma’s back.
I’m proud of Carlos. His story, it isn’t easy.
“I just wanted Jerome to have some fun. Play. He’d been nice to me and I wanted to be nice back.” Carlos bursts into tears. Kim starts crying.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” murmurs Carlos.
Grandma pulls him and Kim together and she hugs and rocks them. Bawling, the three of them are holding on to each other tight. The kitchen never seemed so small.
I look out the window. I can’t see them but I know the ghost boys are down below, roaming, wandering. I turn back to my living family: Grandma, Kim, and Carlos.
Grandma sniffs. “I’m sorry I let Jerome go play. I should’ve made him do homework.
“Bu
t he looked so happy. Mischievous. I suspected there was something he was hiding.
“Yet I was happy he was being a bit naughty. He was so good all the time. I thought—what could he be up to? Why not let him have—”
“Some fun,” says Kim. “Jerome never had much fun.”
Wonderingly, Grandma asks, “You knew? You knew Jerome had a toy gun?”
Kim lowers her head.
“She tried to stop him,” Carlos says hurriedly. “Tried to stop me. She said you wouldn’t like it.”
Grandma caresses Kim’s cheek. Her thumb wipes away tears. “It’s okay, Kim. I love you.
“Can’t undo wrong. Can only do our best to make things right.”
Grandma goes to the cabinet, grabs a tissue, blows her nose. She gives Kim and Carlos tissues, too.
“Carlos, tell me three good things.”
Kim laughs through tears. “Three. That’s Grandma’s magic number.”
Hearing the three talk reminds me of good times. Carlos is in my place. Three is magical. Kim, Carlos, and Grandma.
“Can I have another cookie first?” asks Carlos.
All three sit eating cookies.
I expect Carlos to tell Grandma three good things, but instead he says, “I’m sorry it took so long for me to tell you about the gun. I felt shame. Kim was patient. She believed in me. She helped me to be brave.”
Blushing, Kim doesn’t say anything.
I knew Carlos was a good friend. Kim, a good sister. And Grandma, big-hearted enough to love everybody. The three of them will help Ma and Pop feel better.
I feel better.
One more thing to do before I’m gone.
SILENCE
Sarah isn’t speaking to her dad. I don’t know why but it bothers me. Bad.
Just as it bothers me her room isn’t pink anymore. The walls are still pink but the comforter is gone. There’s only white sheets. Her pillowcases don’t have pink and white frills. Her pink stuffed pigs live in the trash can. Her ballerina lamp is in the closet. She spends hours on her computer.
True, her house is big, cool with air-conditioning. Her neighborhood streets are well-lit. The sidewalks aren’t even cracked. Basketball hoops hang over two-car garages. It’s beautiful, but too quiet. Everyone here lives inside. Televisions glow.
If my family lived here, they’d be outside every day and night. Ma could have a garden instead of her pitiful plants in pots. Grandma wouldn’t have to worry. Kim could read with a porch lamp on and Pop could shoot hoops all night.
“Sarah!”
“What?”
“Do something else.”
“I’m making a website. ‘End Racism, Injustice.’ Did you know black people are shot by cops two and a half times more than white people? But they’re only about thirteen percent of the population.
“In 2015, over one thousand unarmed black people were killed. It’s awful.”
It is.
I stare at the computer screen. Pictures. Headlines. Articles. Videos. Sarah has been working hard.
Does a page really do anything? Make change?
“See, here are links. This one is about Emmett Till. This one links to articles about you. The video—”
“Stop.” I don’t want a link to my death.
“I’m helping you.”
I stare. Sarah’s paler. Summer is waiting outside. Yet she hardly ever leaves her room. She never plays with friends.
Downstairs, her dad drinks, stares at the TV. Her mom sleeps the days away in bed.
“You can’t help me. You can’t help the dead.”
Sarah is stricken. “People should know.”
“So it doesn’t happen again?”
“Yes. So it doesn’t happen again.” Sarah is fierce in a new way. Now she knows murder happens to kids.
Still it bothers me that her family isn’t happy. Just like my family isn’t happy. It bothers me that the whole world isn’t happy.
“You should talk with your dad.”
“I hate him. Don’t you?”
Do I?
Ma, Pop, Grandma taught me it’s wrong to hate. “No, I don’t hate your dad. You shouldn’t either.”
“He killed you.”
“He made a mistake.”
“He’s racist.”
“He made a mistake. A bad one.” Real bad.
Just like it was bad for Mike, Eddie, Snap to bully me. Bully Carlos. They just decided to dislike us.
Mournful, I say, “It’s wrong to be bullied for no reason. It’s worse when someone has a reason. Like prejudice. How’d your dad get that? Who taught him? You’re not prejudiced. He reacted to me without knowing me.”
“He’s a bully.”
“It’s not that simple,” I say, weary. Mike, Eddie, Snap only had words, fists. Policemen have guns.
Sarah shivers, spins in her chair back toward the computer. “There are so many stories here. So many names.”
I study the screen. It’s ugly—seeing the names, pictures of other black boys makes it hard to forget them. Someone will see my name. Maybe remember me? Remember I had a life before I got famous by being shot.
I step closer. “Sarah. Talk to your dad. Something inside him isn’t right.”
“Yeah. I know. He’s scared,” she murmurs.
“Can you help him not to be afraid of black boys?”
Sarah’s head bows. She’s crying.
“Later,” I say, closing my eyes, disappearing.
I’ve gotten good at being a ghost. Being here. There.
“Sarah,” I say, reappearing. “You were right. It matters, you seeing me. Me, seeing you. Sharing my story.”
Sarah looks up at me. Her eyes are real; they have depth; they’re ice-blue, sparkling with tears. “If people know more about other people,” she says, “maybe they won’t be scared?”
“Like you? Like you aren’t even scared of ghosts?”
Sarah laughs.
“You’re going to tell the world about me?”
“Yes. And about anyone else hurt out of fear.”
“Cops must get scared a lot.”
“But they shouldn’t get more scared just because someone’s black.” Sarah twists her hands, inhales, exhales. She speaks quickly. “Some people are glad my dad wasn’t charged. Part of me is glad, too. He’s my dad. I love him. He made a mistake. But him and his partner made it worse when they didn’t try to help you. Patrol cars have med kits.” She stops.
“Why didn’t he try and stop your bleeding?” Looking directly at me, she’s begging me for an answer.
“I don’t know.” Her look reminds me of Kim, how hopeful she can look when she wants me to help her. But Sarah’s got to help herself.
“Tell me three good things about your dad.”
Remembering, she relaxes.
“Dad loves me and Mom so much. He used to carry me on his shoulders. Bouncing me, holding my legs until we reached the pumpkin patch. Or the beach. Disney’s Sleeping Beauty Castle. I loved how he carried me. When I was riding high on his shoulders, I saw the world.”
“What else?”
“He takes me ice-skating. Not lately. But he does. Has. He doesn’t know I know he hates it.” Sarah dips her head, then raises an eyebrow at me.
“Dad loves being a cop. He wanted to be a cop because his dad was a cop.” Then, her voice breaks. “He’s got awards for bravery. Saving lives.
“How could he mess up?”
“Sarah, talk to your dad.”
“I’m scared.”
“Seems like everybody’s scared.” Except dead, I’m not scared anymore. Not of bullies. Of cops. Of dying.
I was me. A good kid. Like Emmett, like hundreds of others.
Others, including Sarah’s dad and Emmett’s killers, lived life wrong.
I barely got to live.
Emmett told me that the men who killed him never believed they did wrong. An all-white jury found them innocent.
The judge said there wasn’t enough evidence to
charge Officer Moore with a crime. But he’s not celebrating.
Is that progress?
Sarah knows she has to talk to her dad. She probably won’t like what she hears, but she has to hear it.
I see images of Sarah, grown, writing books, protesting for change. Teaching people how to see other people. Teaching her kids (imagine, Sarah, a mom!) to learn, not judge.
“Sarah, make people listen. See, really see people. Make sure no other kids die for no reason.”
I want to say more—but I don’t. Sarah’s going to be fine. She’s a white girl but she’s not “white girl.” She’s Sarah. Me and all the other boys on her computer screen have names. Jerome Rogers. Tamir Rice. Laquan McDonald. Trayvon Martin. Michael Brown. Jordan Edwards. We’re people. Black kids.
Color shouldn’t make anybody scared. Is it because slavery happened? Is that why some whites are afraid of black people? I don’t know. Wake up, people, I want to tell everyone. Fear, stereotypes about black boys don’t make the world better.
Quivering slightly, Sarah says, “Bye, Jerome.”
“Bye, Sarah.” Who knew I’d make a death-after-life friend?
“I won’t forget you. Won’t let anybody else either.”
“You do that, Sarah.”
It’s okay that Sarah’s still troubled; she should be. It’s how Sarah helps herself and the world.
I linger outside the house, feeling restless. It isn’t over yet.
“Dad!” Sarah yells, mournful yet demanding.
On the outside, in the yard, I can see Sarah, inside, running down the steps. Cautious, she approaches her dad on the couch. He looks dazed and in pain.
Ghost Boys Page 7
