Ghost (6 page)

“Walk it off?” I asked, annoyed and confused and almost ready to cry.

“Yeah, just walk around the track. It'll cool your body down slowly.”

But I didn't want my body to cool down slowly. I wanted it to cool down immediately! So, yeah, at this point I had pretty much made up my mind that track was the dumbest sport ever. I mean you gotta move to warm up, and move to cool down? Don't make no sense. Cooldown should be, I don't know, some juice and an Icee or something like that. Not no walk.

Once I finished the first lap, Coach told me to take one more, and about halfway around the second lap of me mumbling under my breath about how stupid all this was, I could see the other runners—my new teammates—showing up, dropping their sports bags and water bottles and all that on the track, some of their parents trailing behind.

“This is gonna be it,” Coach was preaching to everyone as I finally made it back to the other side of the track for the second time. “Ten girls, ten boys. Just so we're clear, this doesn't mean you still can't be cut.
It just means you ain't cut yet. Now, I'd like to keep it this way, but that's totally up to you. Got that?”

Everybody nodded, including a woman with braids who looked too old to be on the team even though she was dressed in running clothes. I had first noticed her from the other side of the track and figured she was somebody's mother . . . until she didn't sit down with the rest of the corny kids' cheering squad.

Coach went on about how this was the third day of practice for the spring season, and how he wanted to make sure we all knew each other, or at least make sure all the vets knew the newbies. I was still standing back, sort of outside the circle, as Coach started rattling off everybody's name.

“On the girls' side, for the vets we have Myisha Cherry, Brit-Brat Williams, Melissa Jordan, Dee Dee Gross, Krystal Speed . . .” Any girl with the last name Speed had to be fast. Kinda like any dude with the last name Bolt. Coach continued, “Deja Bullock, Lynn Tate, Kondra Fulmer, Nicky McNair.” He paused and motioned toward the last girl. “And our newbie for the girls, Patina—but she told me a few minutes ago that she goes by Patty—Jones.” Everybody clapped. “Patty, I got high hopes for you, young lady. Let's make it happen.”

Then he started calling out the boys' names. First, the vets. “Eric Daye, Curron Outlaw, Aaron Holmes, Mikey Farrar, Freddy Hayes, Josh ‘J.J.' Jerome, and Chris Myers. You boys better look out for our newbies, Lu Richardson, Sunny Lancaster . . .” And this was when Coach turned to me. “And as of yesterday, this kid. Castle Cran—”

“Ghost,” I cut him off before he could even get the
shaw
out. “Just call me Ghost.”

Coach gave me a look. Actually, everybody gave me a look. Probably because I didn't have no shirt on, and my pants were rolled to my knees, and my belt was yanked so tight that it made the denim bunch around my waist like genie pants. But whatever.

“I was gonna tell them that, son,” Coach said. Then he turned back to the rest of the team. “Lastly, this is your assistant coach, Coach Whit.” Coach Whit was the woman with the braids. She also had chubby cheeks, and like I said, she looked too old to be on the team, but she definitely didn't look old enough to be nobody's coach. Then she pulled a whistle from underneath her sweatshirt, so that pretty much meant she was.

“Give it up for your squad,” Coach told us, slapping his hands together. “This is gonna be a great season!”
Everybody cheered and clapped for maybe ten seconds before Coach shut it down and told us it was time to get to work.

He divided everyone up into whatever their specialty was. Because most of the other kids had been running track for, like, forever, Coach knew who was a sprinter, who ran long stuff, and who ran all the junk in the middle. As far as the newbies were concerned, Sunny was a long runner and Patty ran the in-between. Me and Lu were the sprinters. (I never even knew I was a sprinter!) So guess what we were doing for practice? Sprinting. And guess who had just finished sprinting and didn't get to take a break? Me.

“Today is Wednesday, and Mikey, why don't you inform our newbies about what sprinters do on Wednesdays,” Coach said. Mikey was a vet sprinter. A light-skinned kid with braces and a rock face. The kind of guy who you didn't really say too much to, because you just assumed he wouldn't say nothing back. Except to Coach, of course.

“Ladders,” Mikey grumbled.

“That's right.” Coach paced back and forth. “Four, three, two, one, one, two, three, four.” Every time Coach called a number, he clapped his hands together like a cheerleader.

Okay. Let me explain what Coach was talking about, because I didn't have a clue at first either. All those numbers, the fours and the threes and all that, yeah, add a “hundred” on the end, and then add a “meters” on the end of that. So four hundred meters, three hundred meters, two hundred meters, and so on. We had to run those. Down the ladder to one hundred, then back up to four. I didn't think the day that started kind of bad, then got good, then got bad, then got better, then got bad again, could get worse until Coach told me, Lu, Mikey, and Aaron—the four sprinters on the boys' side—to get on the line, four words I was already sick and tired of hearing.

The whistle blew, and . . . well . . . Lu, Mikey, and Aaron blew me away.

Back on the line, this time for the three hundred. Toasted.

Back on the line, now, the two hundred. Roasted.

Back on the line for the one hundred. Dusted.

“Five-minute break,” Coach said. “Grab some water.” He came over to me, put his hand on my shoulder. I was literally folded in half, trying to catch my breath. My eyes were watering, but I knew better than to cry. I ain't no crybaby. Especially not over no running.

“You all right?” Coach asked. I couldn't get the words out. Every time I tried to speak, the sound was shoved back in my throat by a sharp inhale. So I just nodded. Then Coach squeezed my shoulder and pulled me up so that I was standing straight. “Remember what I told you. Stand tall.” I put my hands on my head, wove my fingers together. “Now hustle up and get some water.” Coach nudged me. “You only got three minutes.”

Here's the other thing that I didn't really know about being on a team. There are rules to drinking water. I mean, I guess it might be different on different kinds of teams, but on this team, everybody had their own water bottle that they had brought with them. So when I went over to the bench with the other sprinters, I just sat down. Didn't ask nobody for a swig or nothing because . . . I don't know . . . it just didn't seem like something I should do. The only feel I had for these guys was that Lu was cocky, and Mikey seemed way too serious to share, and Aaron . . . well, I couldn't get a read on him at all yet. So I figured, three minutes to catch my breath was just as good as water. It would have to be.

“Where's your water, newbie?” Aaron asked, looking down the row.

“I . . . forgot it . . . ,” I replied, the fire in my chest finally cooling down.

“Here.” Aaron held his bottle out. “Take some. And don't put your mouth on it either.”

Lu leaned back so I could grab Aaron's bottle. I held it above my head and squeezed the bottle until the water shot through the nozzle like a jet stream, splashing me in the face, some even getting in my nose. Eventually I hit the target—my mouth, which was when I realized I was wrong. Water was
way
better than just catching your breath. Way, way better. After I handed the bottle back to Aaron, Lu finally had something to say.

“Yo, what you doing here?” he asked. The way he said it made it seem like the words had been bubbling up inside him.

“What you mean?” I replied. “I'm doing the same thing you doing. Running.”

Lu looked at me like I was speaking a different language. “Is that what you call that?” he jabbed. “I mean, yesterday you were big and bad, and today you just . . . bad. Plus,
we
all had to try out to prove we belong here, and you just walk on our track like you one of us?” Lu was giving me a stink-eyed stare, and I was looking to see if Aaron or Mikey agreed with him, but neither of them showed any sign of hate. I got the feeling Mikey
never showed any sign of anything. Ever. Dude was a blank slate.

I tried to keep my cool, because I was all the way clear on what the punishment would be if I did something stupid. Plus, he was just talking trash. And it was just a little bit of trash. He wasn't gonna do nothing to me. I knew that for sure.

Still, I had to ask, “You mad about yesterday? Is that what this is about? Me proving that you ain't all that fast?” Then I had to add, “That you just got on a fancy suit, trying to front like you Usain Bolt.” It felt good to throw that name out there like I really knew what I was talking about, especially since I had to pretend like I didn't think Lu's gear was the sweetest I had ever seen. Especially the shoes. Oh man, those shoes. They were bright green and looked like they were specially made just for him. They
had
to have been helping him run.

“Ain't nobody trying to be
Bolt. I'mma be better than Bolt. Plus, at least I got on running clothes. You out here in your daddy's gear pretending to be something you not.”

Oh no. I could feel the altercation-ness creeping up in my chest like a new kind of lightning. The black was turning red again, and I really wasn't trying to be a repeat offender of the bully beat-down. Not in the same day. But Lu was begging for it.

“What you say about my daddy?” I asked, my head cocked to the side, which is pretty much the universal symbol for
watch yourself, homie.

“I'm just saying if you can't afford running gear, at least wear pants that fit. And what are those shoes?
Sikes
?
Freeboks
?”

“Chill,” Mikey said, flat. That's all he said. Just, “Chill.”

Aaron followed up. “Yeah, take it out on the track, newbies.”

Luckily, Coach blew the whistle and called us all back to the starting line. I stood up. Lu stood up. We eyeballed each other for a second until Coach barked, “Hustle up!” Aaron finally pushed me toward the track, and Lu had no clue how lucky he was.

It was time to run back up the “ladder.” Starting with the one hundred. My adrenaline was still pumping from all that trash Lu was talking. I didn't even do nothing to this dude, and he just felt like he could snap on me. Like I was some chump.
Who is he?
I thought. What gave him the right to just make fun of me for no reason? Like he was perfect.
He's
the one God ain't color in.
He's
the one who looked weird.
Why didn't I at least get him on that? Stupid. But that's okay, because when Coach blew the whistle, I kept up with Lu on the one hundred. Matter fact, I might've even beat him. On the two, I did okay. But it was on the three where the day got
even
worse.

I was wiped, but there was nothing that was going to make me quit. Not after all that trash talk. Plus, I could tell Lu was tired too. He was panting even harder than I was, and he didn't even have the pre-workout workout! Coach even had to tell him to stop bending over, which made me feel good, to know I wasn't the only one who felt like I was dying. But when the whistle blew, and we started running, what I didn't know was that one of my shoes had come untied. By the time I realized one lace was flapping around, we were halfway through the sprint, and I was still keeping up with Lu and there was nothing that was going to stop me from beating him. So I pushed on. We rounded the bend, Lu leaning into it, which I honestly thought was kind of cool, and then we hit the straightaway. I had my elbows tucked and everything. But . . . my shoestrings. They apparently hated me. I stepped on one, I guess. I mean, who really knows how anyone trips over shoestrings. They're just strings. How can you trip over a string? I don't know, but I did. And
it was bad. Not only did I do the whole slow-motion, stumble—stumble—stumble—fall thing, but to make it
even
worse (yeah, we're in like negative worse at this point), my shoes came off. Both!
Off !

Of course, you know that at the exact moment I slammed into the track, everybody else—who had all been off working on their specialties—just happened to be looking toward us.

Ohhhhhhh!
was literally what everyone howled. Everyone. Even Coach. I lay there on my stomach for a second, before finally rolling over and sitting up.

“You okay?” Coach said, jogging over. I looked behind me. Lu was just finishing the sprint and was now staring back down the straightaway. I looked at my hands and knees. They were black and white with track burn. “Come on.” Coach grabbed me by the arm and helped me up. “Walk it off.”

But walking it off had a whole other meaning for me this time. It meant walking, in my dirty, soggy socks, down the track to get my sneakers, which might've been more embarrassing than any joke anyone has ever cracked on me. And walking it off also meant actually walking it off. As in, walking it off the track.

“Just sit this last one out, son,” Coach said, before turning back toward the other sprinters all yukking
it up. Even Mikey. And especially Lu. “That's enough laughing. On the line!” Coach barked, lifting the whistle back to his lips.