Page 22 of Ghosting


  and hobble back

  onto the ice.

  Then I take off after Brendan,

  camera clutched firmly

  in my mittened hand.

  The number of people thins out

  as I get farther away

  from the harbor.

  There are

  no bonfires

  here.

  The night is perfectly still,

  the moon

  almost full.

  The only sound

  I can hear now is

  my skates

  cutting

  the

  ice.

  The cold wind freezes my face,

  but it is exhilarating

  swooping along

  the glassy smooth surface,

  one foot,

  then the other,

  whoosh whoosh,

  like an Olympic speed skater.

  At least I feel like I’m going that fast,

  but I can’t seem

  to catch up to

  Brendan and his brother.

  A lone torch

  marks the spot

  where Artie Phelps must’ve left off his

  grooming.

  The ice is rough here,

  so I slow down.

  I’m beginning to think that

  Brendan and his brother

  are headed all the way

  into Chicago

  when I hear voices

  ahead of me.

  From the torchlight behind

  I can just make out

  the wheelchair

  and

  the skater,

  and I catch

  my breath.

  Brendan and his brother

  are doing

  a figure eight,

  in concentric circles,

  passing each other

  in the middle.

  They are awkward

  and unpolished,

  but it is

  an awe-inspiring,

  humbling

  sight.

  And the most beautiful thing

  about it is

  the concentration and

  the joy on

  both their faces.

  Someone skates up next to me

  and I turn to see

  Chloe Carney.

  She is intently

  watching

  the two boys

  skate.

  Then she turns to me

  and smiles.

  Wednesday, March 9

  ANIL

  1. The whole point of a shrine,

  I thought, was praying.

  But I have no talent for praying.

  I’m too self-conscious,

  too analytical.

  My prayers tend to be

  more like checklists,

  or mathematical formulas.

  2. My mom says there is

  no right way to pray

  and that prayer is really just

  thinking.

  Focused thinking perhaps.

  Anyway, it’s not like I kneel

  in front of my dresser and pray.

  More often, I lie on my bed,

  glancing over at the pieces of glass,

  the roses, and the candle,

  and yes, up at those

  glow-in-the-dark stars

  pasted on the ceiling,

  which have become an

  unofficial part of my shrine.

  3. My mother has already started

  planning the feast that she will cook

  for the Hindu festival of Holi

  which in India marks the

  start of spring.

  It always falls on

  the day of the first full moon

  in March, which this year

  is on the 19th.

  Holi is also called

  the Festival of Colors.

  At night people light bonfires

  to say good-bye to winter.

  They gather together to

  sing and dance and play music.

  And during the day they throw

  gulal at each other—

  brightly colored powders

  that you carry in your pocket

  to fling at anyone

  you meet.

  Everyone knows to wear

  old clothes on Holi because

  the gulal will stain.

  By the end of the day

  everyone is covered with

  brilliant colored splotches—

  on hair, faces, eyelashes, lips,

  clothes, shoes.

  Like they’ve been tie-dyed.

  I love photos of Holi,

  the laughter on everyone’s face.

  As if they’re throwing

  Technicolor clouds of happiness

  into the air.

  Anointing

  everyone around them

  with color.

  4. I still think about Maxie.

  In a different universe,

  I imagine spending Holi with her,

  us laughing together,

  drenched in color.

  But she has made it clear that

  I am an outcast to her, that

  we cannot be friends.

  And sometimes I do not know

  if I can recover from that.

  If I could wash away

  these feelings, the way you can

  cleanse yourself of the gulal powders

  at the end of Holi, I would.

  But what kind of unholy joke is it

  that I should have stumbled across

  this stubbornly unyielding joy

  in a girl’s crooked smile

  on that one terrible night.

  Friday, April 8

  POLICE CHIEF AUBREY DELAFIELD

  When it looked like one of those kids

  was going to die,

  the prosecutor was all set

  to slap Walter Smith with

  Murder One.

  But as soon as the boy who lost an eye

  came out of the coma,

  things shifted.

  There was plenty of talk.

  That Walter Smith was on suicide watch, which I knew to be true, early on anyway.

  That his court-assigned lawyer was going to plead not guilty by reason of insanity.

  That he was going to plead not guilty period, using a defense similar to the ‘Stand Your Ground’ laws they’ve got in states like Arizona and Alabama, under the theory that he had a legitimate fear of being under attack.

  Then on a cold morning in April,

  word came down that Walter Smith was going

  to plead guilty.

  A plea bargain had been reached,

  second-degree murder,

  with a possible sentence of eight to nineteen years in prison,

  depending on the judge’s final decision.

  I wondered why Walter decided

  to plead guilty.

  I heard it was against the advice of his lawyer.

  My best guess is it had to do with

  all those tears I saw him shed

  that night,

  on the curb

  and at the jail.

  I remember thinking at the time that

  he was like a kid who had done something wrong,

  and knew it,

  and felt bad.

  WALTER

  When a marshal is hired to protect a town but it turns out the town is populated by the lawless and the insane,

  the only option left for the sheriff is to

  turn in his badge.

  Monday, April 11

  EMMA

  We get a call from the prosecutor

  saying that Walter Smith

  is going to plead guilty.

  He asks if we want

  to attend the hearing,

  maybe even say something to the judge.

  Faith isn’t sure she wants to go.

  But I am sure.
Which is surprising

  because lately there has been very little I’m sure of.

  Tuesday, April 19

  EMMA

  The day of the hearing, Faith

  decides to come with me, even

  though I told her she didn’t have to.

  Anil is the only other one of us there.

  He is with his parents and seeing him

  in the courtroom is somehow comforting.

  Chloe told me Brendan refused to come, mainly because

  his dad wanted him to, wanted everyone in the courtroom

  to see Brendan in his wheelchair.

  Brendan’s dad thought that their seeing the wheelchair

  would get Walter Smith slapped in jail for

  the maximum sentence allowed by the law.

  Chloe says that Brendan’s turned a corner.

  He’s more interested in looking ahead than looking back.

  And that he doesn’t care what his dad wants.

  I stare at Walter Smith, who looks so small and pale

  in his oversize glasses, and all I can think is that he

  looks like one of those scrawny stubby-tailed squirrels,

  the ones you see frozen in the middle of the road

  as your car barrels toward them, and you know

  that squirrel isn’t long for this world.

  And suddenly I know

  I have to say something.

  Something important.

  When the prosecutor looks over at me,

  I stand up. My hands are shaking

  and my tongue feels thick in my mouth.

  I start to talk but only a

  croaking sound comes out. The judge

  asks me to speak up.

  I clear my throat,

  take a deep breath

  and this time my voice is loud, clear.

  We were all at fault, I say. Not just Walter Smith.

  We were all to blame.

  WALTER SMITH

  When the girl with the dark-red ponytail stands up to speak

  I realize she is the sister of the girl with the dog,

  the one on the bike. They look a little alike,

  but this one has a harder face, not as nice-looking.

  But then I notice her hands are shaking,

  and what she says surprises me.

  She says everything that happened that night

  wasn’t just my fault. We were all to blame.

  And I suddenly remember the movie High Noon and how

  the marshal’s nice wife who wears white dresses

  is the only one in the whole town who helps the marshal,

  who stands beside him when the bad guys come.

  The girl with the pony tail now has tears running

  down her cheeks, and she turns toward me

  looks me straight in the eye.

  And she says, “I’m sorry.”

  Tears are running out of my eyes, too, and then

  a man with a red face jumps up and starts yelling

  about how his son is crippled for life because of

  “that sonofabitch” and I realize he means me.

  The judge bangs her gavel, telling the man to be quiet.

  He won’t and so a sheriff takes him away.

  I look at the ponytail girl, sitting next to her sister.

  They are holding hands and looking back at me.

  And my heart starts beating hard because just for a second

  I think that maybe there still are good guys

  in this world. And that maybe I shouldn’t

  hand in my badge after all.

  Saturday, July 9

  MAXIE

  It is a warm Saturday in

  early July.

  Mom is in the kitchen,

  trying a new recipe for turkey chili,

  and Dad is off at the garden center.

  Now that he’s got a job,

  Dad wants to get the backyard

  fixed up.

  The doorbell rings.

  I open the door

  and Anil Sayanantham

  is

  standing

  there.

  Right away I can’t

  breathe.

  Hi, Maxie, he says.

  Hi, I half whisper, half say.

  How are you? he asks.

  I stammer back that I’m okay.

  Which,

  despite my current inability

  to breathe,

  is actually sort of

  true.

  Uh, he starts, then clears his throat. I’ve been wanting to tell you that those photos you took, the ones in Versions, were amazing. Congratulations on getting the Ellen Loomis Award. You deserved it.

  Thanks, I manage to reply.

  This is so surreal,

  I think to myself,

  chitchatting on the front

  stoop

  with Anil Sayanantham.

  I heard you’re going to Columbia, I say.

  Well, yes and no, he says, I’m actually taking a year off. Going to India to live with my mom’s family. Work in a clinic, travel.

  Wow, that’s great, I say.

  How about you, next year I mean?

  Uh, not India exactly, but I did get into Northwestern, which is sort of a miracle.

  I hear my mom calling me

  from inside

  the house.

  Well, I say, it was nice to see you, but I . . .

  Maxie, Anil blurts out, his cinnamon-colored skin tinged with a red blush, I was wondering, if you, well, would like to go to dinner with me next Saturday night? And maybe a movie?

  I am

  floored.

  Is Anil Sayanantham

  actually asking me out

  on a

  date?

  Really?

  Like nothing ever happened?

  Like somehow we are

  just a normal

  teenage boy

  and

  teenage girl?

  I can’t take it in.

  I feel tears brimming up

  in my eyes.

  Because

  Anil is

  that night.

  I stare at him.

  But then I think to myself

  that Chloe

  and Brendan

  and Emma

  and Faith

  and Felix

  are all