Ghost (Track #1)(4)

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.