Ghost (13 page)

“Good job, Ghost!” Coach said, whistle still in his
mouth, clasping his hands behind his back. I bent over as the other boys crossed the line. They all swung their hands toward me, dapping me as Coached continued, “You proved that you can get it if you want it. Now get back on the line.” But I couldn't move. Because even though Coach had blown the whistle, I had blown my legs.

“I ca . . . I can't,” I panted just loud enough for Aaron to hear me. I dropped to one knee.

He grabbed my arm. “Yes, you can. Let's do it. You got some more in you.” And even though he was the captain, and kind of a suck-up, and he'd gotten smoked by me—a stupid decision that didn't feel nearly as good as I thought it would—I knew he meant that. That I still had more.

Needless to say, the rest of practice was rough, and ended in me crawling from Coach's cab, barefoot, to the house, through the house, into the bathroom, and into the bathtub, where I basically let the hot water cook my muscles.

And that's how it was every Monday after. Every other day during the week was similar, but with a different routine. Coach had it set up so that we always knew what we were doing at practice every day. That way
if he was late, or if Coach Whit wasn't around, we could—Aaron could—run the workout for the team.

So it went like this:

Mondays: Fart licks. Which for me meant an afternoon of running my legs to death, and an evening of boiling them back to life.

Tuesdays: Technique. How to come off the block. Elbows in. Open up your stride. Head up. Back straight. Glide, don't wobble; be a horse, not a penguin. Run
through
the finish line, not
to
the finish line. Blah, blah, quack, quack, wah, wah, on the line, whistle, whistle, over and over and over again.

Wednesdays: Ladders. Four, three, two, one, one, two, three, four. Also known as, Don't Eat a Big Lunch day. Going from four to one was rough but most of us could crush it. Even me. It was heading back up the ladder that was the killer.
Go down, throw down. Go up, throw up.
The absolute worst.

Thursdays: Long run. Every week, a different route. Once I was finally able to keep up, it was kinda cool being part of the train of runners zooming down the sidewalk, dodging people, and bus stop benches, and fire hydrants, and trash bags, with the Motivation Mobile trailing behind. My only fear was that one day Coach Whit would lead us on the wrong route—the
route that went past the sporting goods store, where I was probably a wanted fugitive. Sure, I could just turn my head or shield it with my shirt—pretend to wipe sweat—and nobody would know it was me. But the shoes? There was no disguising them. That girl, Tia, would know the sparkle of the silver bullets, easy. Luckily, we never went that way.

Fridays: Everybody's favorite day. Off. Thank God.

I had pretty much gotten used to everything and everybody. Mean Mikey, mumbling stuff. Aaron, the captain of the team, acting like the captain of the team, which at first I wasn't so sure I was going to be okay with. I mean, the guy had a big mouth. Like,
big
big. But he knew how to keep everybody together and motivated, which could get hard when you're on the side puking your guts out. And then there was the four of us. The newbies. Our special gang. I had gotten used to Patty and Lu snapping on each other and arguing. All. The. Time. I had gotten used to Sunny quoting some spacey book that nobody had ever read. Or saying something really cool, but it's so out there that you don't really even know why it's cool, but it's cool. As a matter of fact, I think that's the record he holds. The record for saying the coolest
what in the world is he talking about
sayings. Definitely. I had even gotten used to Coach
on my back every day about my homework, which I usually got done during the ride home, and whatever I didn't, I finished while Ma was zoning into the cheesy movie of the night. Even Coach's stupid whistle and the constant shouting of “on the line” became just as normal as sunflower seeds from Mr. Charles's store. I had gotten used to it all, and I was pretty sure that they had all gotten used to me. So everything was cool. Maybe the coolest it had ever been.

But uniform day changed everything.

Uniform day was the day when Coach was going to give us our jerseys and shorts. He had been talking about this day for two weeks, going on and on about how uniform day was important because it meant you were officially on the team. It was the last piece to the puzzle. And I wanted that piece. I mean, I had traded running in my jeans for a pair of cutoff scrubs I got from my mom, but that was like running in a pair of drawers! And when I got to sweating . . .
man
, straight-up gross. So a uniform sounded amazing. An actual uniform, just like basketball teams, except for a track team. Yes.

Coach showed up at practice carrying the box. He dropped it on the track in front of us as we bent and stretched, getting ready for the usual “Technique
Tuesday” routine work. I was gonna practice coming off the blocks, because it was where I needed the most help. It felt weird to not just stand up straight and run when I heard the whistle. But to bend down and press my feet against that metal . . . thing, was way weird.

“Bring it in,” Coach said. “As you all know, our very first meet of the season is this Saturday. You've worked hard these past few weeks, and I'm proud of you. So to get you excited about smoking everybody this weekend, I'm gonna give out this year's Defenders uniforms.”

We clapped it up as Coach folded the cardboard flaps of the box back. “When I call your name, come get your uniform and go put it with your stuff. Then give me some warm-up laps,” he said. Then, one by one he called each runner forward. I was standing next to Lu, and when Coach called his name, I gave him a
way to go
nudge. He grabbed his gear, then jogged back and gave me five. The jersey, which he held up, was electric blue, with gold letters across the front,
DEFENDERS
. Underneath the word was a picture of a fist clenching a wing. It would go perfect with the silver bullets. I liked it. No, I loved it.

“
Sweet!
” Lu sang out.

“Man,” I said, not really believing how good it looked.

Coach called out name after name. Outlaw. Speed. Lancaster. Farrar. Bullock. Fulmer. McNair. And after every name I'd say to myself, waiting,
Cranshaw, Cranshaw. Cranshaw.
Tate.
Cranshaw.
Hayes.
Cranshaw.
But Coach went on and on until he got to the last uniform. My uniform. But he never called my name.

“And that's it,” Coach said.
That's it?
I knew my eyes were buggin'.
That's it?
Everybody was checking their jerseys out, putting them in their gym bags, or jogging around the track. But I was still waiting.

“What about me?” I asked. I didn't understand what was going on. Where were my shorts? My jersey? Where was my uniform?

“Oh!” Coach said, as if suddenly remembering that he had left me out. But how could he have left me out? I had proven myself. I was pretty much the best sprinter on the team. At least one of them. Whatever. Didn't matter, I thought, because I had reminded him. “Oh right, I have something for you, Ghost,” Coach said, digging back in the box. When he pulled his hand from the brown cardboard, he wasn't holding no electric blue dopeness. Instead he was holding a piece of paper folded into a small square.

“What's this?” I asked.

“Unfold it and see,” Coach said, his face changing, falling into that familiar look of disappointment, the way Principal Marshall's face does whenever I've had an altercation.

I unfolded it as quickly as I could because
what the . . .
and what I found on that piece of paper was the most shocking thing ever. It was a picture of me, dashing from the sports store. A close-up of my face, and underneath it, in red—big bold red—was the word
SHOPLIFTER
.

I looked up at Coach. My tongue had suddenly turned into a stone in my mouth. I couldn't breathe, like I had just finished running ladders, like I was going to yak up every sunflower seed I had ever eaten, and if there was ever a sunflower growing in me, it was definitely dying right then.

“I went to go pick up the uniforms at the sporting goods store, and guess whose photo was taped to the window?”

I didn't say nothing. I couldn't.

“Guess!” Coach insisted, forcing me to say it. But I just couldn't. He snatched the paper back, ripped it into confetti. “That's your uniform,” Coach said, holding his hand open so I could see the white confetti.
“And since you can't wear this”—he turned his hand over and let the paper fall to the ground like awkward snowflakes—“you can't run. So take your silver shoes and have a seat.”

“Wait, Coach—”

“Sit!” he shouted, pointing at the wooden bench. Everybody looked at me as I started walking. But they weren't laughing, and instead just seemed shocked and concerned, which was probably the only reason I didn't take off running, away from the track, and off to the basketball court or Mr. Charles's or anyplace else. Instead I did as Coach asked and sat down. “And for the rest of you, mind your business,” Coach warned the team. “If I hear anything about this—anything at all—you can give your uniform right back. Am I clear?”

The team, shook about the prospect of having to hand over their sweet new jerseys, grumbled and started their warm-up laps.

I stayed right there on that bench the whole practice. And Coach never once looked over at me, not even to check that I was still there. It was like he didn't even care. As a matter of fact, I could've just gotten up and left, but that seemed like a bad idea, because I felt like if I left now, I could never come back, and my life on
the track team would be over. For good. So I just sat it out and hoped for the best. But I don't know what the best could've been. I was caught. Didn't really think it would happen. And even though I had already told Coach the shoes were a gift from my mom, I still had to tell my mom how I got them at some point, and I'd planned on telling her that Coach got them for me, and then hope and pray that she never thanked him. When I think about it now, that was the stupidest idea ever. Wow. Anyway, the point is I wasn't a thief. I mean, I guess I was. But I wasn't a criminal. I'd never swiped nothing before! I was just a dude who needed some new shoes to run in.

After practice, everybody came over to me, doing the best they could to hold their words in but sending me all their
what did you do
's with their eyes. They each gave me five as they left, and it was like they were giving me my final five, the one that said,
We don't know what's about to happen to you, but hold your head up.
The one just before I'd have to walk the plank.

“Let's go,” Coach threw at me, once everyone had left. His words knocked against my chest like knuckles. A two-piece.
Let's. Go.
I grabbed my bag and followed him to the car. As I opened the back door, he spat, “Up here,” delivering two more to the ribs. He threw
everything in the backseat as usual, then opened the passenger-side door. I closed the back door and got up front. As we rode through the city, neither of us said a thing. Coach didn't look over at me or nothing. He just bit down on his bottom lip, and occasionally he would shake his head like he was picturing the picture of me in that store over and over again. I thought about trying to explain myself, but what was I going to say? I didn't steal them? Because I did. So I just sat there, my legs becoming wooden with fear.

When we pulled up in front of my place, Coach cut the car off and opened his door.

“Where you going?” I asked, because he never got out the car except for the time he had to ask my mom if I could go on the newbie dinner, but that had been weeks ago. The routine was, he pulled up out front, dropped me off, waited for me to get inside, then pulled off. But he never, ever, got out the car.