Ghost by Jason Reynolds Page A

of course, since this was the first Friday of the season, Coach was taking the newbies out for dinner.
    After two half days of school (which technically equals one full day), I’m happy to say that school went pretty smooth on Friday. Brandon Simmons was back, and even though I had on my regular dusty-buttshoes—the fancy ones were for track only—Brandon didn’t have too much to say to me. I saw him just before first period, and he walked right past me and Dre. I saw some of the other kids snickering at him as he passed. But I told them all to chill. I don’t know why because he totally deserved to be roasted, but I guess I felt kinda bad for the dude. I been there.
    â€œI can’t believe you’re giving this clown a pass,” Dre said. It was almost like he had a year’s worth of laughs stored up, waiting to unload them on Brandon. Everybody did. But I just couldn’t let it happen. Funny thing was when I saw Shamika in Mr. Hollow’s class, she apologized to me about everything that went on in class the day before. And that, my friends, is what they call karma. Plus, like I said, she was a cool girl anyway.
    At lunch, she even sat with me, Red, and Dre, and told us every story about times she cut things, just because she was feeling a little guilty.
    â€œThere was one time I cut my hair. Man, that was crazy. Just straight-up started hacking it off like a maniac, just because it was hot and my hair was on my neck,” she said first, just before taking a bite of her burger. Then, in the midst of chewing, she continued, “And another time, I cut a pair of jeans into shorts while I still had them on! That was not smart! Stillgot the scars on my legs!” And then she erupted into laughter just like she did in class. But this time she was the butt of her own joke. And even though me, Dre, and Red didn’t really find it that funny, we couldn’t help but laugh too because, well, that’s what her laugh makes you do.
    Before I knew it, school was over and I went on my usual walk home. I mean, Coach wasn’t coming until later, so I figured there was no rush. So I went to Mr. Charles’s store.
    â€œLet me guess, sunflower seeds?” Mr. Charles said. He turned the little TV down as usual.
    â€œLet me guess, a dollar?” I said, slapping my money on the counter. I grabbed the bag.
    â€œYou okay, son?” Mr. Charles asked.
    â€œYeah, why?”
    â€œOh, you know . . . all that stuff that happened yesterday with you being teased, and then you came here and got . . .” He stopped short.
    I was starting to feel a little annoyed that he even brought it up, because I was definitely trying to forget about it all. Especially that last part. The stockroom part. Talk about weird . Not that I hadn’t thought about it. I mean, how could I not? But every time my father’s face, or the sound ofhis angry voice, or the sound of the gun cocking popped into my mind, I would just shake it out of my head by thinking about my bullets. The silver bullets. But you just can’t be mad at an old James Brown–faced man like Mr. Charles. You just can’t.
    â€œYeah, man,” I assured him. “I’m cool. I’m actually in a good mood.”
    â€œOh yeah?” he asked.
    I used my teeth to rip open the corner of the bag. “Yep. Got a dinner thing I’m going to tonight. For my track team,” I said, all proud.
    â€œTrack team?” Mr. Charles asked, now turning the TV down even more. “You’re on a track team, Castle?”
    â€œYes, sir,” I started to say, but it’s hard to try to talk and get a seed out the shell at the same time. So I waited until I got it done, then continued, “Remember, I told you yesterday?”
    â€œYou did?” Mr. Charles looked puzzled. “The old brain’s getting wonky these days. Sorry, son.”
    â€œIt’s cool.” I tapped the bag