Ghost (Track #1)(34)

Friday, Coach made me do exactly what he said I would have to. Clean out his cab. He came over to my house after school and drove around to the back of the building, where the Dumpsters were.

“Ghost, I’m not gonna lie to you,” Coach said, popping the trunk. “I don’t know what might be in here.”

I wasn’t sure either. I mean, the backseat was pretty much clear, just because that was the part of the car that he rode customers around in every day until I got in the car after practice. Then he put all the stuff in the front seat in the back. So the trash went from back to front, then front to back. Fast-food bags, gym bags, paper, shoes, and who knows what else. And then there was the trunk. When he popped it, and I looked in there and saw the end of the world, the backseat and front seat seemed spotless. The trunk was ridiculous.

“Coach, this is crazy!” I said, staring into what looked like the black abyss.

“I know,” he said, flashing an embarrassed smirk. “I sure am glad you did a stupid thing and have to clean all this up.”

And I did. I trashed all the fast-food bags, some with french fries and half-eaten burgers still in them. I pulled out the duffels. I don’t know why Coach needed so many gym bags. Who needs more than one? But there was nothing in them. They were all pretty much empty, because all the shoes, and stinky shorts, and towels took up about half the space of the entire trunk! Dirty socks, and headbands, and old jerseys from past years with the Defenders. He also had starting blocks, which are big and metal and heavy, shoved in there. And whistles. Whistles everywhere. I opened up the gym bags and loaded them up with all that crud. When I got to the last one, a yellow-and-green duffel with the name Otis on it, I unzipped it.

“Who’s Otis?” I asked Coach, who was sitting on the hood of the car, flipping through the lists of all our run times.

“Otis is me,” he said, not even looking up.

“Oh,” I said, flat. I mean, I knew Coach’s last name was Brody, and I figured his first name wasn’t just Coach. Nobody’s name is Coach. Well, that might not be true. My name is Castle, so someone might actually be named Coach, somewhere. But not chipped-tooth turtle face.

I started loading the bag up with a busted pair of cleats that probably would’ve been better off in the trash, when I spied a piece of paper, a crinkled-up rectangle, in the corner of the duffel. I pulled it out. It was a faded picture of a man, tall and slim like Sunny, facial hair only around his mouth but none on his cheeks. He had his hands resting on a little boy who stood in front of him. The kid was cheesing. The man was looking away, almost like he was calling out for someone.

“Who’s this?” I asked, bringing the picture around to the front of the car. Coach took it from me, looked at it like it was his long-lost gold medal. His mouth hung open for a few seconds before he finally answered.

“This is my father.” He tapped the picture with his finger. “And that’s me,” he said about the happy little boy. “Where’d you find this?”

“In that bag.”

Coach pulled the photo closer to his face, as if he was studying every detail. “Thank you,” he said, and right then I got the feeling that being mad at his dad wasn’t the only way he felt about him. He was. But I could tell Coach also missed his pops. He loved him. And I could totally relate to that, because as happy as I was that my crazy father wasn’t around to hurt us no more, whenever he wasn’t wasted, he was dope. That was my dad too. And I missed that version of him.

Coach gingerly slipped the photo in his back pocket, then pulled it right back out.

“Throw those bags in the trunk. I think you’re done,” Coach said, climbing into the cab. He took the photo and put it up in the dash part where the speed numbers are. I tossed all the gym bags full of dirty sports gear in the trunk and slammed it shut. Then I hopped in. “Where we going?”

“You’ll see.”

On the way to the land of you’ll see, I teased Coach about the name Otis.

“Seriously, Otis is the name of old men who smell like cinnamon and barbecue sauce.”

“Shut up, Ghost,” Coach said, laughing.

“I mean, Otis is the name you give short, fat dogs. Not people.”

“Oh, so I’m a dog now?”

“No, I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Well, how did you mean it?”

“I just meant Otis is a great-great-great-grandpa’s name.” I paused, struck by another thought. “Are you a mechanic? Because if you’re a mechanic, then it’s okay.”

Coach pulled over on the side of the road. “You wanna get out?”

I zipped it. And my mouth stayed zipped until we pulled up right in front of—wait for it—Everything Sports. I looked out the window and into the store. Tia was there, leaning against the counter, checking her cell phone. She could be doing some high kicks or some jumping jacks, but no. She was texting. Not an athlete.

“Do I need to tell you what we’re doing here?” Coach asked. And the truth is, he didn’t. I knew why we had come. Why we had to come. I had to come. But it didn’t feel good, that’s for sure. As a matter of fact, it felt pretty wack. I looked Coach in his eye and shook my head before exhaling a heavy, guilty breath. “You ready?” he said.

“Yeah, I’m ready.”