School of the Dead (8 page)

I was unable to deny what was going on: I was being stalked by a ghost.

I rushed back down to the street, determined to ask the first kid from my class I saw if they wanted to do something together that weekend. But when I reached the sidewalk, everyone was gone.

By the time I got home, I knew I absolutely had to talk to Jessica. She seemed to be the only person who could give me advice about the ghost. I could have called her right then, but I decided it would be better to speak in person. I wanted—needed—to see her reaction.

On Monday, I'd tell her everything.

Over the weekend, my parents and I did what Mom kept urging us to do: take in the sights of San Francisco.

Saturday, a sunny day, we rode a cable car, took a boat ride around the bay, visited Alcatraz, walked across the Golden Gate Bridge, and ate at a Chinese restaurant. As we strolled about, we passed a men's clothing store with ties in the windows. I got my folks to get me a black one.

Sunday, after sleeping in, I did homework. In the afternoon, we went to Golden Gate Park and the Legion of Honor art museum.

“I love being in this city,” exclaimed Mom as we returned to our apartment after a Brazilian dinner. “Don't you think it's full of life?” she asked.

That was what Uncle Charlie had said about the Penda School. All I said was, “It's okay.”

“Sourpuss,” said Mom, smiling.

Sunday night I walked my slackline but kept falling. I knew the answer too. I was worried about the Penda Boy.

At about nine, my cell phone rang. It was the first time that had happened since I moved to San Francisco.

It was Jessica. “Hey, you going to join the club or not?”

“I was going to talk to you tomorrow.”

“You know where to find me.” She hung up.

I lay on my bed, thinking:
Jessica wants me to be part of the club. She said the club tries to find out school secrets. I want answers about the ghost. About Austin.

I wanted friends too. Did I want her as a friend? I had been cautioned about her. By who? Riley Fadden. Ms. Foxton. People I didn't like. Okay. I'd be friends with Jessica. Join the Weird History Club. Hopefully, she would help me decide what to do about the ghost. I had to get him out of my head, the same way I had gotten rid of Uncle Charlie.

When I woke Monday morning, it was dark outside. For a moment, I thought I had gotten up too early. Then I realized: it was the famous San Francisco fog.

During breakfast, Mom said, “Remember how Uncle Charlie liked to recite that poem, ‘The fog comes on little cat feet. It sits looking over harbor and city on silent haunches and then moves on.' No idea who he was quoting.”

“Carl Sandburg,” said Dad. “Writing about Chicago.”

I shook my head clear. Having Uncle Charlie in my head would
not
help. This was the day I was going to talk to Jessica about the ghost.

Together, my parents and I stepped out of the apartment into thick, swirling fog. What sounded like heavy groaning filled the air. “What's that?” I asked.

Dad said, “It's the angel Gabriel atop your school announcing the end of the world.” In a mock low voice he added, “The dead will soon rise.”

I stared at him.

“Don't be morbid,” snapped Mom. To me, she said, “Just foghorns from the bay.” She peered into my already damp face. “Can you get to school okay?”

“It's only six blocks.”

They moved away, Mom calling, “Have a great day. Love you.”

I watched them dissolve into the fog. Then I turned toward school, only to be engulfed by the dense mist.

Unable to see beyond a foot or two, I walked with care, my feet making soft pit-pats on the sidewalk. Foghorns moaned. The swirling fog played hide-and-seek with the world. The air smelled wet. I was wet. Buildings rose up into nothingness, while solid things became oddly shaped. Red and green traffic lights were bleary, blinking eyes. Car headlights were uncertain flashlights, and on the damp roads, tires hissed like spitting snakes. From somewhere came a screeching siren, which I assumed was an ambulance. The drifting gray shadows that crept by were like people in a fake horror movie. I felt clammy, uncomfortable, confused, as if I were walking through an ever-changing maze.

Muddled, I stopped and tried to figure out where I was. I couldn't. I took out my cell phone to check the time. It was dead. I had forgotten to charge it. When I peered back to see where I had started, I couldn't.

I turned around, only to become more jumbled, hesitant about which way to go. Uncle Charlie's words, “The separation between past, present, and future is only an illusion,” filled my head. It felt that way. Not wanting to go the wrong way, I stood still.

Without warning, an old man loomed out of the fog and
peered so closely into my face that I saw his lively eyes. As if he knew I was lost, he grabbed hold of my arm and shoved me forcibly a few steps until I saw a street sign I recognized. I knew where I was. “Thanks,” I muttered as the old man disappeared into the fog.

It took two seconds for me to realize that the man who had helped me was Uncle Charlie.

Except he had not
just
helped me: he had taken
hold
of my arm and guided me to safety. I spun about and gazed into the murk where he had vanished. “Uncle Charlie!” I called. “Uncle Charlie!”

I had
felt
his touch. Except . . . that was impossible. He was dead. He was a memory.

Heart hammering, struggling to catch my breath, I considered going back to the apartment, staying home from school. I reached for my phone only to remember it was dead. Like Uncle Charlie. Anyway, how could I explain not going to school? My parents would think I was insane.

Maybe I was.

Almost falling, I stumbled off a curb onto the street, only to have a huge black hearse leap out of the fog from behind a steep hill, like a black fish breaching from the sea. I jumped back. Unnerved, I looked all ways before I started across the street again. A kid ran past me. He looked like the Penda Boy.

Mid-street, I froze. What was happening?

A car horn blared at me. Startled, I bolted for the far curb, wanting to be with people. Forcing myself to go on, I kept searching my mind back to what had happened, or what I thought had happened: that Uncle Charlie had
touched
me.

I reached the school, where, if anything, the fog was denser. Kids drifted about, coming, going, solid one moment, dissolving the next. I couldn't tell who was who. I looked up. The school towers were wrapped in drifting gray. Same for that tall tree. The school seemed only partly there, the way I felt.

I
moved toward the entryway, wanting to get inside. As I started up the steps, I saw the Penda Boy peering out from behind the doors, waiting for me.

I whirled about and stood in place, heart pounding, desperate to know what he wanted from me. The question fused with my fright about the old man I had seen, the one who had touched me, helped me. Because if it had been Uncle Charlie, and he was just a memory, how could he have
touched
me? I could make no sense of it—or him—or me.

“Tony.”

Taken by surprise, I turned.

Standing close was a girl wearing a yellow slicker and a lavender scarf around her neck. Her face was wet, her smile big. Though she was familiar, I was so upset that I couldn't recall her name.

“Hi,” she said, her smile turning tentative as she searched for recognition in my eyes. “Lilly,” she said. “Your class? I didn't mean to startle you. Don't you love the fog?”

I remembered. “Oh, sure. Lilly.”

“Right,” said the girl, head cocked to one side in self-mockery. “Just me. Anyway, it's my birthday this week. Oh my God, thirteen.” She lifted her shoulders as if squeezed by the huge event. “So, I'm having a party. Friday. Bunch of kids from class. Movie, go for pizza. Don't have to bring a present. Can you come?”

“Think so,” I said, recovering. “Thanks. Thirteen, congrats.”

“Give you info later,” she said, and darted away as if she had acted boldly and needed the protection of three giggling girls who were watching.

Belatedly, I realized that Lilly had to be the girl who'd written the comment that she was glad I was in the class. I was annoyed. I was embarrassed. I was pleased. Mostly I was tense, sensing that unclear things were swirling around me—the fog, the Penda Boy, Uncle Charlie. Even Lilly.

Telling myself,
Calm down. There must be reasons
,
I checked the doors. No longer seeing the Penda Boy, I went into school.

When I reached homeroom, I took an isolated desk. Breathing deeply, I tried to settle myself and make sense of what had happened by looking out the window at the heavy fog.
It's all in my head
, I kept telling myself.
It's all in my head.
Except I no longer knew what or who was in my head.

After a while, I stole a look over to where Lilly was sitting. She must have sensed my glance, because she peeked over her shoulder and smiled shyly at me. I forced a return smile. Then I caught Jessica watching me, a reminder that I had promised to speak to her. With so much tumbling in my head, I couldn't. Instead, I tried to pay attention to Batalie, who, thankfully, called the class to order.

I acted as if I was there. The truth is I didn't know where I was.

An hour and an half later, the recess bell rang. As students rushed out, I realized Jessica had stayed at her desk reading a textbook. I was sure she was waiting for me. Though too tense to talk, I made myself go up to her.

“Hey, Tony. What's up?”

“I sort of want to talk about . . . you know.”

“Sure. Come on.”

“How about Wednesday, after school?”

She focused her dark eyes on me and pushed back her hair. “Don't want to be seen with me?”

“I want more time.”

For a moment, her eyes were fierce, like those in that painting of Mrs. Penda. “Okay,” she said. “Let me know.” She went off, flipping a forgiving smile over her shoulder.

During recess, I stayed at my desk thinking about Uncle Charlie, endlessly replaying what had happened when I came to school in the fog. Had Uncle Charlie been there or not? If yes, what
was
he? I thought of the expression
touched by memories
. Yeah, but not
really
touched.

I gazed out the windows. There was as much fog inside my mind as there was outside. I was asking myself,
If you are crazy, do you know you are crazy?

Seventh-grade history was a European survey, from the fall of the Roman Empire to the eighteenth century. We were up to medieval times. The teacher, Mr. Bokor, was an enormous guy from Haiti, big enough to be an NFL linebacker except he wore baggy brown suits. He had
a deep, lilting voice, which filled the classroom. As he moved among students, he was always dramatic, often funny, poking kids' shoulders to make a point or to hold their attention. He had the kind of teaching energy kids love.

That day he was telling stories about the medieval Tower of London, about the many people imprisoned, tortured, and killed there, their heads chopped off. He was being colorful and enjoying himself as he started talking about all the ghosts that were said to walk the Tower ramparts.

Jessica shot up her hand. “Mr. Bokor, do you believe in ghosts?”

Bokor beamed. “Do I believe in ghosts, Jessica? Absolutely. Memories are real, are they not? Well, memories are ghosts. Ghosts are memories. Does not history haunt us? The month of August is named for Augustus Caesar, the Roman Empire's first emperor. Thursday gets its name from Thor, the Nordic god of thunder. Oh yes, my friends, ancient gods—ghosts—are part our daily lives.”

Bokor's words—echoes of my own thoughts—had me listening and watching intently. He must have caught that I was interested, because he wheeled about and barked, “Our new friend here, Tony, came from Connecticut.
Connecticut
: an Algonquian Indian word that means ‘upon
the long river.' Did you know that?”

I shook my head.

“My native land,” he went on, “Haiti, takes its name from a Taino Indian word meaning ‘land of high mountains.' So, ghosts of the old Caribbean world, lurking. Consider the name of our school and its founder, Mrs. Penda. I have no doubts her name comes from the last great Anglo-Saxon pagan king of what is now England.

“And,” he boomed, “speaking of pagans, the school's big Halloween party is coming up. Anyone know the origin of Halloween?”

Rapt, no one spoke.

Bokor boomed on: “New Testament. Luke 9:60. ‘Let the dead bury the dead.' But sometimes the dead are
not
buried. They wander.

“Indeed, those Anglo Saxons believed that those who had recently died hung about as ghosts and roamed the earth for seven years—
seven
years—until the very last day of that seventh year.”

Into my head came Uncle Charlie's words:
Remember the number seven.

Bokor went on. “What was
that
last day called? All Hallows' Eve. Guess how we changed that word?
Halloween.
It happens in two weeks, my friends. Right here.

“Yes, those ancient Anglo Saxons believed those seven-year-old ghosts had one last chance—Halloween eve—to regain life before plunging into the world of no return.”

I felt as if Bokor was talking just to me. Same time I noticed he had no accent in his speech. How long, I wondered, had he been in America?

“Why do we wear masks on Halloween?” Bokor demanded. “To keep our identities hidden. Same reason we close the eyes of the dead. Somebody said: ‘The eyes are the windows to the soul.' So, if
you
are being pursued by those ghosts—with their searching eyes—look out. Keep your eyes closed. But if you wear a mask it will keep that ghost from knowing who
you
are.”

Mac called out, “Mr. Bokor, what happens if a ghost recognizes you?”