Ghost (2 page)

Don't nobody go to college for free to run no races,
I thought to myself, spitting a shell out. I hate when
they get stuck to your tongue and you gotta do that spit-flick thing. So annoying.

A weird-looking kid, I can't really explain what he looked like, well . . . let me try. You know how I said Mr. Charles looked like James Brown if James Brown was white? Well, this kid looked like a white boy, if a white boy was black. Wait. That doesn't make sense. Let me start over. His skin was white. Like, the color white. And his hair was light brown. But his face looked like a black person's. Like God forgot to put the brown in him. Wait, is that like Mr. Charles or not? Forget it. Anyway, the boy raised his hand.

“Yes, Lu?” the coach said.

“Is it true you ran in the Olympics?” the kid asked.

“Is it true that you didn't?” the coach shot back, playing him out.

The boy called Lu stood there like he just got slapped in the face by one of Charlotte Lee's rubber ducks. Like he didn't know what to do. “U-uh . . . ,” he stammered, not sure of what to say.

“Don't worry about what
I've
done. Worry about what
you
want to do. If you stick with me, I can get you there.” The coach wiped spit from the corners of his mouth. “Now,” he said, looking at his roll sheet,
“let's see what we can do with you newbies. Lu, Patina, Sunny, on the line!”

The three “newbies” hustled down to the other end of the track.

“Lu, you're up first. Hundred meter on the whistle,” the coach directed. The weird-looking dude, Lu, was decked out in the flyest gear. Fresh Nike running shoes, and a full-body skintight suit. Like a superhero. He wore a headband and a gold chain around his neck, and a diamond glinted in each ear. All the other runners stood off to the side as the coach put the whistle in his mouth. He held a stopwatch in his other hand. “Ready,” he said through his teeth. Then came the short squeak,
badeep!
and Lu took off.

It was quick. I mean, this kid was really fast, and when he got to the end of the straightaway, a woman who was sitting on a bench on the other side of the track jumped up and squealed and clapped like this dude was some kind of celebrity or something. I was impressed, not enough to clap—really, I was just happy something unboring was
finally
happening—but definitely impressed enough to stop sorting seeds in my mouth until he was done.

“Nice job,” the coach said as Lu trotted back over to the side like a pro. Like this was no big deal, and
he knew it. He glanced over at me. I spit shells on the ground. The coach also called out a time and scribbled it down, but I didn't catch it.

Next up was the big goofy-looking kid the coach called Sunny. He was the one getting yelled at when I first got there about not kicking his legs up high enough in the warm-up. To be honest, he didn't look like he could even walk in a straight line, so I figured this was going to be pretty funny. Sunny got in position, closed his eyes, and took slow, deep breaths. Then the coach blew the whistle, and off he went. I could tell he was pushing as hard as he could, but he just wasn't going nowhere. It was like he was running into the wind, even though it wasn't a windy day. Like his shoes weighed a ton or his bones were heavy or something. Nobody cheered for him, and a few of the other kids even laughed.

“We'll see who's laughing when we get to the mile,” the coach barked at the sniggering runners. They all cut it out quick. Sunny loped back over and joined the group, unfazed. He didn't even mind that he had run the slowest I had ever seen anyone run. His sprint was like a jog. My mother could've probably smoked him. Mr. Charles might've even burned him up, and he's like a thousand years old! The coach gave Sunny a
nod, then turned to the next person. A girl. “Next up, Patina.”

The Patina girl was tall, and sprang up and down on her toes, rolling her neck and shoulders, I guessed to loosen up. Her hair was yanked back in a stubby ponytail, with lots of frizz around the edges. When the coach blew the whistle, Patina broke out in a flash, zooming down the track definitely faster than Sunny, but not quite as fast as Lu. Still, I was impressed. I mean, I don't know a whole bunch of girls who can run that fast. Actually, I don't really know a whole bunch of girls who run at all. They always be trying to be cute in school, but I ain't mad about that.

“Y'all vets better look out for this girl. She runs the eight hundred like it's a skip down the block,” the coach said, giving Patina a high five. If anybody complimented me like that, I'd be trying hard not to smile, but would probably slip a little one in. But she, Patina, she just kept it cool and got back in line like it was nothing. I could tell she was no joke.

After Lu, Sunny, and Patina ran, the coach told all the other runners, “the vets,” to line up and show “the newbies” how it was done. So on and on it went, the whistle blowing, one by one, boys and girls on the line, sprinting down the straightaway. Each of their
times being recorded. Some were faster than others. Actually, most of the vets were pretty fast, but nobody was faster than the pretty boy, Lu. Nobody. And the coach kept saying stuff like, “Lu's still the one to beat,” which was kinda pissing me off because . . . I don't know. It just made me think about this kid Brandon at school, who always . . . ALWAYS picked on me. Not even just me, though. He picked on a lot of people, and didn't nobody ever do nothing about it. They just said stupid stuff like,
Can't nobody beat him.
Same kind of rah-rah this bowling-ball-head coach was kicking about this kid, Lu. It's just . . . ugh. I mean, he was fast, but honestly, he wasn't
that
fast.

When everyone had taken a turn, the coach started over and gave everybody a chance to give it another go to see if they could beat their first time. So Lu was up for another go. He did that same cocky swagger over to the starting line. Did a few stretches, some jumps. And the lady on the other side of the track screamed again. The boy was just getting loose and she was going off like he was doing something. The people around her looked at her like she was crazy, obviously annoyed. All of his teammates looked on. Some of them seemed to be bubbling with anticipation to see the mighty Lu run again. Others looked . . . over it. That's probably
how I looked. That's definitely how I felt. Over Lu, over Brandon, and over anybody else who thought they were unbeatable. Not to mention I was all out of sunflower seeds, so I had nothing to hold me back from getting up and showing him that he really wasn't all that, and that I ain't never had a running lesson in my whole life and I could keep up with him, if not beat him. So I stepped over all the sunflower seed shells that had piled up between my feet like a mountain of dead flies, and walked, not on the track, but just beside it, on the grass. I lined up with Lu, who had now dropped into his “on your mark” stance. I didn't need to do all that. I just needed to roll my jeans up and tuck my laces in my high-tops and I was good to go.

Coach Turtle Face noticed me and called out, “Kid, what are you doing? Tryouts were last week.”

I didn't say nothing, and the coach followed up with, “This is a private practice.”

I still didn't respond, and just started scrunching the sleeves of my T-shirt up to my shoulders.

“Did you hear me?” the coach now asked, a little louder this time. He started walking toward me. The other kids were looking at me like most kids did. Like I was something else. Like I wasn't one of them. But whatever. “Do you not understand what
private
means?” the coach jeered. I thought of a funny comeback but kept it to myself.

“Yeah, man, the track is for runners, not people who want to
pretend
like they runners,” Lu jabbed, now standing straight. He looked me up and down, then flashed an arrogant grin.

“Just blow the whistle!” I finally called back to the coach. He stopped in his tracks and glared. Then he looked at Lu before continuing in my direction. He pointed his clipboard at me.

“Listen, you get one run, hear me? After this, I don't wanna see you around here no more,” he threatened. “This is serious business, you understand?”

I gave him the
whatever
face and nodded. He pointed his stupid clipboard at me again, like I was scared of that. Please. Then, as the coach headed back to the finish line, Lu shook his head at me and growled, “Hope you ready to get smoked.”

This time I said it. “Whatever,” and gave him my best ice grill to make sure he knew he didn't scare me. And he didn't. We were just running, not fighting, so why should I be frightened by some milk-face running boy?

Now back at the other end of the track, the coach yelled out, “On your mark . . .” Lu dropped down on
all fours again. I just put my right foot forward. “Get set . . .” Lu put his butt in the air. I leaned in. Then . . .
badeep!
I wish I could tell you what I was thinking. But I can't. I probably wasn't thinking nothing. Just moving. Man, were my legs going! I pumped and pushed, my ankles loose and wobbly in my sneakers, my jeans stiff and hot, the whole time seeing Lu out the corner of my eye like a white blur. And then it was over. And everybody watching, all the other runners, clapped and hooted, pointing at us both. Some had their mouths open. Others just looked confused. The lady on the other side of the track—not a peep. But all the people around her were standing and cheering.

Lu walked in circles with his hands on his head, trying to catch his breath, panting, wheezing out, “Who won? Who won, Coach?”

“I don't know, son. It was pretty close.” The coach said it like the words were sour in his mouth. I walked back over to my bench, grabbed my backpack, and to keep my part of the deal, headed out. I'd made my point, and it wasn't like I wanted to be part of their little club. I just needed everybody to know that the fancy, white-black boy wasn't all that.

“Kid.” I could hear the coach's footsteps coming behind me. I was still trying to get my heart to stop
trippin' and my lungs to start working again. “Kid, wait. Wait,” he said, running up beside me. He was wearing those sweatpants, the swishy-swishy kind that make every step sound like paper crumpling. “Who you run for?” he asked. What? Who did I run for? What kind of question was that?

“I run for me. Who else?” I replied. I stopped walking.

“No, I mean, what team?”

“No team.”

“I see.” He glanced over at the track. “So then, who trained you? Somebody had to train you to be so fast.”

“Nobody. I just know how to run.”

“You just know how to run,” he repeated under his breath, followed up by, “Yes. Yes, you do,” also breath-talk. “Look, I don't know you—what's your name?”

“Castle Cranshaw,” I said, then quickly clarified, “But everybody calls me Ghost.” By everybody, I meant nobody except me. That was my self-given nickname. Well, halfway self-given. The night me and Ma busted into Mr. Charles's store, Mr. Charles looked at us like he was looking at two ghosts. Like he didn't recognize us, probably because of how scared we both must've looked. So I just started calling myself that. Plus it wasn't the only time someone had looked at me
that way. As a matter of fact, this man, the coach, was looking at me the exact same way as Mr. Charles did that night, stunned, and I couldn't tell if it was because my real name was Castle or because of my nickname.

“Okay . . . uh . . . Ghost. I'm Coach Brody.” We did a proper handshake. “Listen, like I said, I don't know you, obviously, but I know you got something special. At least I think you do. So, you wanna join the Defenders and run with us?”

I didn't even think about it.

“Nope.” Just like that.

“Nope?” Judging by the look on Coach's face, I could tell nobody said no to running on his team, ever. “What you mean, nope? Why not?”

All the other runners on the track were cracking jokes and playing around. Everybody but Lu. He was back on the line down on his knees, like he was getting ready to take off again.

“Because my sport is basketball.”

“You play ball?” he asked, like he didn't believe it. Like I didn't look like I could hoop.

“Yep.”

“For who?”

“Why you keep asking me who I do things for?” I snapped, mainly because I didn't play ball for nobody.
Not yet, at least. But it was still in my plans. Plus, who was he to be all in my business anyway? I didn't even know him. And he didn't know me. “Look, even if I wanted to join your team,” I continued, “I would have to ask my mother first, and she's probably gonna say no, so—”

“So let me ask her,” he cut in.

“Why you care? It's just running,” I said.

“Is that what you think?” Coach narrowed his eyes. “That this is just running?”

“Uh . . . yeah. I mean, what else is there? Ready, set, go. Run. The end,” I said like a robot.

Coach let out a hearty laugh, the kind that sounds fake. Nobody really laughs that hard and that loud without bending over like it hurts. “We'll get to that,” Coach said, cutting his laugh off instantly. Like I said, fake. “For now, let's focus on the task at hand. If your mom says it's cool, will you join?”

“Man, I told you, I play ball.”

Coach sized me up, biting down on his bottom lip. “Okay, I'll tell you what. Basketball's your sport? Cool. But if you wanna be a better ball player, join this team and you'll be faster and stronger than anyone on any court. Matter fact, your legs will be so strong you'll be dunking on people by next year.”

“You think I'm stupid?” I looked at him sideways. Ain't no way I could be dunking in a year. I never heard of no eighth graders that can dunk.

“Depends on what you say next. You are if you don't let me ask your mom about joining.” Coach was looking at me like he was dead serious. Like he really thought running could help my hops and get me dunking by next year, which if that
did
happen, I would go right down to the court with Sicko and them and demand to play. I kept checking his face for a sign he was lying, a sign that would've been easy to see because he didn't have any hair to disguise it. But there was no sign. No lie.