Ghost (Track #1)(31)

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.