by Avi
At the table she said, “How was school?”
“Okay.”
“Make any friends?”
“Maybe.”
“Need anything?”
“Pens, pencils, notebooks.”
Mom said, “Can we wait for the weekend?”
“Suppose.”
To Dad, I said, “What do you know about earthquakes here?”
“California has about ten thousand earthquakes a year. Most are small. Maybe a few hundred are greater than 3.0 magnitude. Only about fifteen to twenty are greater than 4.0.”
“How do you know that?”
“The US government has a website that lists the day’s earthquakes. San Francisco is famous for them.”
“Hey, did you guys tell the school about Uncle Charlie and me?”
Mom, shaking her head, looked at Dad.
Dad said, “I didn’t. They don’t need to know.”
“They do know.”
Dad shrugged. “If you told them, that’s okay.”
But I hadn’t.
Later, in bed, as I was trying to sleep, an idea came: Uncle Charlie must have told Penda I was coming to the school.
Only I realized that was impossible: I had been accepted at Penda after he died. But someone must have told them about Uncle Charlie. If it wasn’t my parents, or me, then who?
I started thinking about that boy I kept seeing around the school and in the tower: how he looked like the kid in the school office painting, the one they called the Penda Boy.
Not possible, I told myself again.
I felt an urge to get to school and look at that painting once more. I was certain that it would not be the kid I kept seeing, for the simple reason that that was impossible.
The first thing I did when I woke the next morning was look around for Uncle Charlie. He was not there. Good. That told me I could handle my memories. One problem solved.
Next, when I got to school, I went right into the school office. Mrs. Z, sitting behind her desk, looked up. “Hello, Tony. How did your first day go?”
“Fine. I’m supposed to ask you for a list of the sports teams I can join.”
“Good idea.”
As she bent over to get the list from a drawer, I looked at the painting of the Penda Boy. My heart sank. The kid in the painting really did look like the boy I kept seeing.
Mrs. Z handed me a sheet of paper.
“Mrs. Z,” I said, pointing to the painting. “He died, right?”
“The Penda Boy? Oh yes, a long time ago. In the high tower, they say.”
I left and headed up the steps, my thoughts on the Penda Boy. When impossible things happen, does that make them possible? I looked around to the other steps. I didn’t see the boy, only Uncle Charlie.
Exasperated, I told myself that whenever I felt upset, Uncle Charlie appeared, as if I was asking him for help.
“I don’t need you,” I called out.
“You talking to me?” said some kid right behind me.
“No, sorry,” I said, and hurried on, trying not to think of the boy.
As I went from class to class, I felt I was being judged by students and teachers. In various subjects—science, art, and math—teachers kept asking if I had learned this or that, as if constantly saying, Do you know anything? Not much, apparently. And there were kids who asked, “Who are you?” That made me feel more isolated than ever.
No sooner did I feel alone than Uncle Charlie appeared. I told him—in my head—Uncle Charlie, I’m trying to get along without you. That seemed to satisfy him. He went.
But not the blond boy. I kept seeing him, always partly veiled by a crowd of kids. I tried a new tactic: When I saw him, I closed my eyes for a few seconds. When I opened them, he was gone. That convinced me: I could switch him off the way I did my memory of Uncle Charlie.
And, following my decision not to hang with losers, I also avoided Jessica and her friends. I was never going to be with the in group, but once you are with the losers, you’re a loser forever.
The next day, my face appeared on the homeroom portrait wall. I had taken Austin’s place. Below my picture, things were already written.
Welcome to Penda! Mr. Batalie
You’re very interesting. Jessica
I’m glad you’re in our class. Lilly
I need to talk to you.
Why did Jessica find me interesting? Who was Lilly? Who needed to talk to me? Weren’t all comments supposed to be signed?
Sure enough, the following day, Thursday, just before classes began, Mr. Batalie made an announcement. “Okay, guys, someone wrote under Tony’s picture. Nothing negative, but it was not signed. I trust we all know the rules about the portrait board. No unsigned statements. I’ve removed that comment. Whoever did that, please do not do it again.”
Kids looked around. No one confessed. Nothing more was said. Or answered.
Later in the day, Peter asked me if I would like to sit on the newspaper Wednesday club. I agreed, only to have Jessica ask me to join the Weird History Club. She said, “I need to talk to you.”
“I promised Peter,” I said, but noted that I need to talk to you was what had been written under my photo. Had she written it?
I sat in on the School Newspaper Club. They talked about who should interview the perfect Riley Fadden. It made me wish I had gone with Jessica.
Thursday crept by like a slug with a flat tire. I did not see Uncle Charlie, and that was good. But the blond kid kept appearing, which I did not like. Whenever I saw him, I turned and moved on. That helped.
The best part of my day was after school, when I walked the slackline. Though I was getting better and better, school was not. I felt stupid in classes. I was not making any friends and wasn’t sure how to do anything about it.
Friday, another comment appeared under my picture: I need to talk to you. Once more, it wasn’t signed. By then I was sure it was Jessica who had written it, but I didn’t want to say anything.
Batalie scolded the class. No one admitted doing anything.
I saw the blond boy twice.
The instant I saw him, not only did I turn away, but I hung around other kids. That seemed to work. He went. From then on, I made sure to stay around people.
All the same, I kept catching glimpses of him. So I changed my mind about Jessica. The way I kept seeing—or thinking I was seeing—the blond kid upset me. Jessica claimed her club studied weird things. Seeing the Penda Boy was totally weird. I was also sure she wanted to talk to me. Maybe she would help get the boy out of my head. This was why, during morning recess, in the cafeteria, I headed right to where she and the Weird History Club were sitting.
Jessica was at her table, one of her feet—black sneakers with red shoelaces—on the empty chair. When I showed up, doughnut and juice in hand, I didn’t get her regular smile. It took me looking at her foot to get her to move so I could sit.
“How’s it going?” I said.
“We’re okay,” she replied, sounding glum. Mac and Barney kept eating and didn’t speak. It was as if they knew I had been avoiding them.
After some silence, Mac said, “Hey, Tony, what do you think of the Penda School now?”
I said, “A lot of work.”
“Yeah,” agreed Barney, adding to his sunflower-seed pile. “It is.”
I was trying to get up my nerve to ask Jessica about the blond kid when she suddenly said, “Anyone tell you more about Austin?”
I shook my head.
“They won’t,” she said.
“Why?” I asked.
Mac left off biting a fingernail to say, “The towers. Learn about them yet?”
“Not really,” I said, not getting what Austin had to do with the towers.
“They’re haunted,” Mac said, going back to chewing his nail.
Remembering Ms. Foxton’s warning about the teasing of new students with haunted stories, I said, “Yeah, right.” Same time I wondered why only these kids were teasing me.
“No,” said Barney. “It’s true.”
“That’s why they don’t let anyone inside them,” said Mac.
“They say it’s for safety reasons,” added Barney.
“Actually,” said Mac, “she doesn’t want us to see what’s up there.”
“Who’s she?” I asked.
Jessica said, “Ms. Foxton.”
“She’s afraid of what we’ll find,” Mac said.
“The ghost,” I said.
Jessica said, “Yeah, the ghost.”
I couldn’t hold back. “What if I told you that the first time I was here, I saw a kid at one of the tower windows?”
The boys’ mouths dropped open. Jessica sat up straight, eyes right on me. “Who’d you see?” she demanded. “We need to know.”
Glad to get some reaction, I said, “When my parents and I first visited the school—Sunday—at the highest tower’s window—I saw a boy looking out.”
Jessica said, “That true?”
“I think so.”
The boys looked at Jessica as if she should reply. After studying me for a bit, she said, “Then you saw the ghost.”
“What . . . ghost?”
She said, “The Penda Boy.”
“The kid whose picture is in the school office?” I asked.
“Yeah,” said Mac.
I waited a second before saying, “Has anyone else seen him?”
No one spoke until Jessica said, “You were close to someone who died, right? Bet you anything the Penda Boy thinks—because of your smell—that you’re dead enough to be his friend. But I hate to tell you, he’s not your friend—he’s an enemy.”
“You serious?” I cried as the bell went off for the end of recess.
“Hey,” said Jessica, standing up. “You’re the one who told us you saw him. No one else is seeing the ghost. Want to know how to handle him? Join our club.”
Defensively, I said, “Please don’t write any more comments under my picture.”
“Wasn’t me,” she said, and the three went off.
Shaken, I sat there thinking: It can’t be a ghost. I don’t want anything to do with ghosts. I shut my eyes. When I opened them, Uncle Charlie was sitting opposite me.
Frustrated, I said to him, as firmly as I could, “Okay. From here on, I am not going to remember you. Get it? I’m on my own.”
He went.
I headed for class, not sure what I felt more: angry, annoyed, or just creeped out.
Right before lunch, Batalie called me up to his desk. “Ms. Foxton asked that you stop in her office during fifth period. You can be late for science.” He handed me a late slip.
My mind still churning over what Jessica had said, I felt lousy and had no desire to see Ms. Foxton. Not having a choice, I went.
Mrs. Z greeted me. “Ms. Foxton will be with you in a minute.”
I sat down on the office couch and stared at the painting of the Penda Boy. Absolutely, he was the kid I kept seeing. My big question kept coming back: If he was a ghost—as Jessica said—how come I was the only one seeing him?
“Ms. Foxton is free now,” said Mrs. Z.
As I entered her office, Ms. Foxton stood up behind her desk. “Tony,” she said, “so glad to see you again. Please, have a seat.”
She sat, clasped her small, well-manicured hands, and smiled. “How are things going?” she asked.
Preoccupied by thoughts of the Penda Boy, I just sat there.
“Getting on with Mr. Batalie?” she prompted. “The other teachers?”
“I think so.”
She waited a moment, then said, “Have any impressions to share?”
“Not really.”
“Any problems?”
“Nope,” I said. For a second I thought of telling her about the Penda Boy. Not wanting her to think I was nutty, I didn’t.
“Do you think you’ll be happy here?”
“I suppose,” I said mechanically, wanting only to leave.
She frowned. My blank responses were frustrating her. I was hoping she would dismiss me, but she said, “I know that developing friendships is one of the most important things one can do at a new school. In addition, you’re also new to the city. Have you had the chance to make friends?”
She waited for me to speak, so I felt I had to say something. What popped out was the first name that came into my head. “Well, Jessica, sort of.”
“Jessica Richards?”
Hearing alarm in her voice, I was sorry I had spoken. Besides, I was not sure I wanted Jessica to be my friend.
Ms. Foxton gazed at me, fright back in her eyes. “Tony,” she said with care, “one’s choice of friends is always important in one’s school life. No doubt, Jessica has her . . . good points. I’m just not certain,” she went on, her voice dropping almost to a whisper, “that she’s your best choice for a friend.”
“What’s wrong with her?” I said, not believing she was actually telling me who I should be friends with.
“Jessica has been known to . . . create . . . problems.”
“What . . . what kind of problems?”
“Well . . .”
I made my own connection. “You talking about the Weird History Club?”
The fear in Ms. Foxton’s eyes deepened. “Ah,” she said, “you know about . . . them.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Do you . . . intend to join?”
Having no idea what I’d do, I shrugged.
“What has Jessica told you?”
Not wanting to talk about ghosts, I said, “The kid I replaced—that Austin kid—the club is trying to find out what happened to him.”
Ms. Foxton’s hands gripped together so tightly the tips of her fingers turned white. “Tony,” she said, her voice low with tension, “let’s just say that Jessica has a reputation for creating difficulties. For instance, telling . . . fanciful stories. I’m afraid . . . truthfulness is not one of her better character traits.”
She was telling me who my friends should be.
This time Ms. Foxton actually whispered. “Tony, I need to be as direct as I can: We want you to be happy here. But we also need to know you can be a positive member of the Penda family. What you choose to do with your . . . friendships is a big part of education and . . . your life.”
Upset, I just sat there. As if coming to my rescue, Uncle Charlie stood behind her.
Ms. Foxton gazed at me for a while and then said, “The great Greek philosopher Aristotle said, ‘A friend is one soul in two bodies.’ When choosing a friend, you might ask yourself: Do you wish to share souls with that person?”
Uncle Charlie grinned.
“I’ll think about it,” I said, not sure what she was getting at. Besides, I was angry.
“Please understand,” she went on, “my responsibility is the well-being of Penda.”
“Right. Respect the past—protect the future.”
She paled and suddenly stood. “Thank you for coming, Tony.”
Dismissed, I hauled myself up and hurried toward the door.
“Tony,” Ms. Foxton called—I heard apology in her voice—“if you can think of any way I can be helpful, my door is always open. I mean that, sincerely.”
I walked out, ignoring how Mrs. Z looked at me—as if she had overheard and disapproved of the conversation.
I headed up one of the big stairways toward science class. All I could think was: Why was Ms. Foxton warning me about Jessica? What is she worried about? Why is everyone so evasive about Austin?
I looked across to the other steps. The Penda Boy was there, his eyes full of pleading, as if desperate to say something to me.
Feeling a bolt of anger, I called, “What do you want from me?”
A student came bounding down the steps.
The Penda Boy vanished.
I stood there, trying to make sense of it all. I couldn’t. All I had was what Jessica had said: the boy I kept seeing was not just a ghost. He was my enemy.
For the rest of the day I made sure
not to be alone.
At three o’clock, I couldn’t get out of school fast enough. On the sidewalk, kids were milling around, sorting out plans for the weekend. Having no plans, I felt like a weed in a fancy garden. I looked around for Jessica, wanting to talk to her some more. Not seeing her, I figured she had gone home. But to my exasperation, I saw Uncle Charlie. I swung away only to see a kid come right toward me.
“Tony?” he said.
It took a second for me to realize it was the kid who had been pointed out to me as “the perfect Penda student.”
“We haven’t met,” he said, holding out his hand like a professional greeter. “I’m Riley Fadden, Eights Student Council president. You’ve probably heard of me. Glad to welcome you to Penda.”
“Thanks.”
“Problems with the school, whatever, come to me. I’m Mr. Fix-It. Or there’s a council rep in the Sevens. Peter Schotter. You can always talk to him.”
“Okay.”
He edged closer. “Give you a tip,” he said, as if I was some special friend. “Keep away from that Weird History Club. I mean, that Jessica”—he grinned—“she’s awesome pretty, but”—he punched me lightly on my shoulder—“honest. She’s trouble.”
He walked away, calling, “Have a great weekend.”
That did it. They were all worried about Jessica because she was trying to find out school secrets. Okay, I had to know a lot of things:
First, that old question: What’s the deal with Uncle Charlie? Why did he keep coming into my head? He was like an assigned guide—nice when you first get to a new place, but then you want to be on your own. I reminded myself that he was just a memory. Memories can fade.
He was different from the Penda Boy, right? But that gave me the second question: Was I really seeing the Penda Boy’s ghost, or just imagining him?
Third, if the boy was a ghost, how come I was the only one seeing him?
As far as I could tell, the only ones who could give me answers were the Weird History Club. The school losers.
So, fourth question: Should I have anything to do with them?
At dinner that night, my parents tried to get me to talk about school. “Pick a sport?” Dad asked.
“Think it will be Ping-Pong,” I said.
Dad said, “That’s sure to get you an athletic scholarship to Stanford.”
“That’s why I chose it.”
