Manifest (2 page)

It’s
like somebody put a sweater around my arms. I shiver even though I didn’t realize I was cold. I’m in the house. It’s raining outside but it’s dry and warm inside. Goose bumps still prickle the bare skin on my arms.

In the pit of my stomach it feels like butterflies are dancing around. That’s strange because just a few minutes ago, downstairs with Janet, I felt that same burning in my stomach that I feel whenever I’m around her—whenever I think of her leaving my father.

I rest my forehead on the door, afraid to turn around, afraid not to.

He’s here, the boy. I know he is even though he’s not calling my name or begging me to help him.

What should I do?

I could scream and Janet would come running. But what would she see? I don’t think she can see ghosts. I didn’t think I could either.

The funny thing is I’d convinced myself I was cursed or crazy or both when I heard the voices before. The first time was when I was five. The last time I was twelve and had gone to visit my grandfather—on my father’s side—in a nursing home. I figured the voice was one of the old people
asking for help or for food or the sound of someone who simply wanted a hug.

That night I swore I’d never hear another voice and for a while I thought my vow had worked.

Until today.

How long are you going to stand there?

His voice sounds so normal, like he’s just a boy from school sitting in my room talking to me.

I press my palms against the door and take a deep breath. I’m already in my room, my safe place. There is nowhere else for me to run or hide.

So, I figure I just better face it, I’m crazy.

I turn slowly and look toward the window seat. He’s sitting there, his back to the wall, one leg propped up on the seat cushion. My stuffed animal army is on the floor. Can dead people move things?

“What do you want?” I ask in the same monotone he uses. For some reason I don’t feel nervous, just tired. Of running or ignoring the voice, I guess.

I need your help.

“I can’t help you.”

You don’t even know what I need you to do.

“Well, you’re dead, right? I can’t bring you back to life.” I’m not
that
crazy.

He sighs, like I’m getting on his nerves.

I don’t want to come back,
he says then stops like he’s thinking about his words.
I just need some answers. I need to find out who did this to me.

“Then you should go to the police or a lawyer. I don’t know, just stop stalking me.”

He chuckles.
Stalking or haunting?

I don’t find the situation very funny. “Just go.”

I can’t. Not yet. They think somebody from my crew killed me. But that’s not true.

Suddenly I’m really sleepy. I feel like I’ve been up for
hours. I hear the words coming out of his mouth—unfortunately—but I’m too tired to comprehend them. I move away from the door and trudge over to my bed where I plop down and stare at the ceiling.

“Who’s your crew? No, first, who are you?”

My name is Ricky Watson. I used to go to Settlemans High until last year when I was shot in the alley behind the school.

I think I’ve heard the name.

“Your brother is Antoine Watson?”

Yeah, he’s a year younger than me. He’s in the tenth grade now. I was a junior.

“Did you ask him for help?”

You’re the only one who can hear me.

“I was afraid of that.”

I drape my arm over my forehead and close my eyes. I don’t want to see him but my eyes feel like they’re going to turn toward him on their own. So I cover them.

“I don’t want to hear you,” I say because it’s the truth.

That’s cool. But you can. And if you can hear me, you can help.

“What if I don’t want to? What will happen then?”

I won’t go where I’m supposed to.

“And where’s that?”

Not sure. But I know I wouldn’t still be here talking to you if there wasn’t something I needed to do.

“How do you know that?”

He chuckles again. I think I like the sound of his voice now.

I used to watch a lot of those shows on TV that talk about dead people not crossing over, having unfinished business and all that.

My arm slides from my eyes and I turn my head. He’s still sitting in the window seat. Ricky Watson—the dead boy. He has a dimple in his left cheek.

“This is crazy. I must be crazy,” I say, keeping my eyes on him. “I’m lying in my room talking to a ghost.”

You know, the crazy part is that I’m dead and still can’t get any peace.

I close my eyes because my lids feel really heavy. Then something happens. I feel something.

It’s warm and soft and those butterflies in my stomach dance around some more. I open my eyes slowly and Ricky isn’t in the window seat. He’s standing right next to my bed now, his hand hovering over my face.

It’s really close, Ricky’s hand. I can see the lines in the palm of his hand, the ones my grandmother used to tell me told your future. He acts like he’s brushing my hair aside, but it doesn’t really feel like it.

Go to sleep. We’ll get started tomorrow.

He’s talking to me like my father, or an older brother I guess. His hand is still moving across my body but I don’t really feel like I’m being touched.

I feel like my body is becoming warm.

I’m back again, inside the dream.

I know this place.

It’s our apartment in New York. I inhale deeply and my mouth waters so I lick my lips. Daddy’s frying chicken.

He’s from the South, my father. Calvin Jefferson Bentley. His parents were born and raised in Charleston, South Carolina. When he graduated from high school he went to college in New York, said he always wanted to live in the Big Apple. That’s where he met my mother, but that was years later since he’s ten years older than her.

All I know is he makes the best fried chicken and my stomach is growling. I feel like I haven’t eaten in months.

Twelve months to be exact.

In my dream, I open the door and leave my bedroom. It’s painted blue, my favorite color, and I love just looking
at the walls and the matching curtains. But right now I don’t mind leaving so much.

There’s a short hallway then I’m in the living room. The TV is on, tuned to a sports channel. Daddy loves his sports.

I can hear the fried chicken sizzling and see trails of smoke traveling through the air. I keep moving, letting my stomach be my guide.

Just as I thought, on the stove is a deep cast-iron frying pan that looks like it will knock you out if somebody was fool enough to hit you with it. Inside the pan are a couple pieces of chicken, sitting in the hot bubbling cooking oil turning a golden-brown color.

On a plate across the counter from the stove is more chicken piled high like a pyramid. I don’t waste a minute. I hurry over, pick up a breast because I love the white meat and put it to my lips.

As I take that first bite, juice dripping down my chin, the warm, greasy, spicy taste moving around my mouth as I chew, I hear the door slam. So I turn around. I’m still carrying my piece of chicken and chewing as I enter the living room.

The TV is off now. There are suitcases by the door. I recognize the bags. They are dark blue with goldfish airport tags that I saved from our trip to Sea World a few years ago.

I swallow my bite of chicken but it sort of gets stuck in my throat as I look around the room and cough.

The big picture of Mama and Daddy the day they got married is gone. It usually sits on the sofa table in a big crystal frame. Not anymore.

Mama loves elephants. She collects them and puts them all around the apartment. They’re gone, too.

Moving like I’m in a trance, I head to my room, push open the door and drop the chicken breast on the floor. It’s empty. The walls are still blue, the curtains are still at the window, but all my stuff is gone. My posters of Beyoncé
and T.I.—gone. My
Twilight
calendar—gone. My gray pullover Aeropostle hoodie that I always keep on the closet doorknob—that’s right—gone.

My eyes are burning with tears as I remember why everything is gone. It hits me full force, the conversation with Mama as we boarded the train that would take us away from the city. The calm way that she told me she was leaving Daddy for good and taking me back to her hometown.

I don’t want to go to the small town where she grew up. I don’t want to leave the city. I don’t want to leave Daddy.

So I turn away. I try to run. My feet move fast. I’m always running. I keep running and running until I trip over something and fall.

It’s raining again. It always seems to be raining. My fingers tighten into a fist and I feel cool wet mud under my nails. I hate the dirt and struggle to stand up, but when I do I’m confused.

I’m no longer in the apartment.

It’s dark here and foggy. I can’t really see anything but stones—rows and rows of stones.

Krystal.

I hear my name and turn in the direction I think it’s coming from. I don’t see anyone.

Krystal.

There it is again but it’s a different voice this time.

Okay, so I don’t know where I am, or why I’m out here in the dark cold rain. But I know it’s not where I want to be so I start to walk fast. Then I bump into one of the stones.

I scream because pain ricochets through my body when it slams into my kneecap. I’m bending over rubbing my knee when I look up and read the stone directly in front of me.

Ricardo Watson

March 4, 1993–February 7, 2009

My heart beats wildly in my chest. I touch my heart—through my shirt, of course—thinking I can slow my heartbeat as I stand.

Krystal.

This time the voice is familiar. But when I turn toward it, I don’t see anybody. I don’t see Ricky.

It’s eerily dark but there’s, like, this mist hovering above the stones. I take another painful step when I hear my name again. Okay, to hell with the steps. I break into a run only to be stopped short by a loud sound, kind of like thunder rolling in the sky. Then the mist grows darker until it’s a thick black cloud of smoke that swirls around my ankles, moving upward toward my thighs.

Now my heart feels like it’s about to come out of my chest. I’m breathing heavily and my entire body is trembling. My face and neck feel damp, from sweat maybe? Or had it started to rain? I don’t know what to do. Don’t have a clue why I’m here or what’s going on. Should I run? Should I scream?

What is this? What’s happening to me?

Finally my mind wraps around the fact that I’d better do something rather than playing Twenty Questions. But just as I take off running I see a bunch of people coming toward me—a bunch of dead people.

Sleepy
and cranky is how I feel when I finally step off the school bus the next morning.

After the nightmare of Ricky’s tombstone, I couldn’t go back to sleep. I booted up my computer intending to play Bejeweled, but instead watched as my fingers typed the word
supernatural
in the search engine box as if it were a Ouija board.

Tons of sites for a television show popped up, so I figured I needed to be a little more specific.
Supernatural powers.
Click.

Is that what I have?

There is no denying I was seeing ghosts or spirits or whatever you call it. Scrolling down the page, I saw lots of sites that had lots of information. But since I’m seeing dead people, I clicked on the one that said
clairvoyants.

The ghost talked to me and I heard him and I talked back. That’s
clairaudience,
according to the site.
Clairsentience
is when somebody senses the presence and thoughts of the spirit.

And me, I’m reading all this and comparing myself to the people on these blogs. Why? Because that’s what crazy people do!

I was interrupted by the bleep of an instant message. Clicking on the small box in the lower left corner of the screen, I wonder who could be sending me a message this time of night.

I haven’t gotten any instant messages—aside from those from online chat groups about movies, songs or celebrities—so I was really curious as to who could be sending me one now.

It was from ChicTeen.

Every time I boot up my computer, I’m automatically logged into the ChicTeen site, a chat room with millions of teen members around the world.

What? Okay, now there’s something else that’s weird. Who is “number1” and how did he or she know I’m cute? For a minute I just drummed my fingers on the desk, watching the cursor flick on and off. The flashing cursor almost looked impatient, like it was waiting for me to type something in. But I didn’t know how to respond. I didn’t know who it was. I guess either way it’s polite to say thanks, so that’s what I typed.

Bleep.

Now we’re officially in the creepy zone. “Who is this?” I said aloud like I really expected a voice from the computer to answer.

Can you say perv? Jeez, who was this idiot?

I clicked out of the chat room and shut it down quickly. I didn’t want to give “number1” a chance to reply.

Just about then the light began to push through the blinds in my room, signaling that it’s time to get ready for school. Clearly, crazy time was over and now it was time to get back to normal again. But then I’m not normal—never have been and probably never will be.

Getting ready for school is a perfunctory exercise for me since what I wear and the way I look aren’t a big deal. I always grab what’s clean, what’s closest and what matches. Then I head to the kitchen for a Pop-Tart and glass of juice before leaving the house—and the stress that surrounds me at home—for a few hours.

Settlemans High is nothing like my old school in New York. It’s bigger for one, surrounded on one side by grass and more grass until it runs into tall trees that seem to touch the sky. On the other side is a parking lot, big like the ones at the mall. Students with cars park there, and just about everybody has a car. I don’t. The bus is my main mode of transportation.

In the back of the school is another parking lot where the teachers and other staff park. Also the tennis courts, baseball field, stadium and track field are back there. My old school only had a gym and no parking for anybody.

This school isn’t as crowded either. There are a bunch
of kids, but only like three hundred compared to the nearly two thousand in New York.

I should stop making comparisons. I’m here now and that’s that. Still, my mind keeps tallying up all this information for later use.

He’s looking at me the moment I step off the bus. His name is Franklin. He looks at me all the time. And I guess I must look at him, too, otherwise how would I know he’s looking at me?

Except today when he looks at me I turn away quickly because I don’t want to see him. The boy I want to see is Ricky, I think. But he’s conveniently disappeared. That should be a good thing. Maybe he won’t come back at all.

I take my usual route to my locker when my cell phone rings. Nobody but Janet and my father have the number so I instantly think there’s something wrong. Dropping my book bag in front of the bank of lockers, I reach into my purse to fish it out. Looking at the caller ID, I realize I don’t know this number. So I change my mind about answering.

Working the combination lock, I pull open the door to my locker. I start to take out the books I’ll need for the three periods before lunch, when I can come back to my locker. But when I stand up to put them inside I kind of gasp because Franklin’s standing right there.

“Hi, Krystal,” he says and smiles.

“Hey, Franklin,” I say, trying not to sound mean when I really want to yell at him for almost scaring the life out of me.

“Need some help?”

“With what? Putting my books in my locker? No, thanks,” I reply and know it sounds frosty this time.

Franklin’s not bad. I mean, he’s not bad to look at or anything so I’m not, like, repulsed to be around him. He’s got to be mixed, because his complexion is creamy and his hair is wavy. He’s taller than me and always wears polo
shirts. A lot of the girls like him. I hear them talking about him in the bathroom and in the cafeteria. But to me, he’s just okay. I mean, it’s not like I’m looking for a boyfriend. Or even a friend-friend for that matter.

“I can walk you to your class.”

“It’s right over there.”

“I can still walk you,” he says when I slam my locker shut.

I shrug because again I’m tired and arguing with him might take up the little bit of energy I have left.

As we’re walking my cell phone rings again. “Dang,” I swear because it’s probably that number again. The one I don’t know and have no intention of answering.

Still, I once again pull it from my purse. Yep, it’s that same number. I cut off the call.

“Mad at your man?” Franklin asks.

“What?”

He nods toward my purse and the cell phone. “You ducking his calls?”

I shake my head, confused as to why he would even think I had a boyfriend let alone one that I would be trying to ignore. “No. I don’t know who that is calling.”

“Well, I know it’s not me.”

“Of course it’s not because you’re standing right here.”

Franklin just smiles as we approach the door that leads to my Biology class. “No, I mean, I know it’s not me because I don’t have your number.”

For a minute I feel like an idiot but then I think he’s the one who should feel stupid with that tired line he just tried to use on me.

“So can I have it?” he finally asks.

“Can you have what?” I know what he’s talking about this time, but I’m trying to figure out if I should give it to him and then ignore his calls the way I just ignored this other one. Or should I just tell him no. I’ve never had a boy call me before.

His smile seems to grow bigger, just about all of his white teeth showing. “Can I have your number, Krystal?”

“What do you want it for?” I’m still stalling, trying to make my mind up.

“So I can call you. Why else?”

“And why would you want to call me when you see me every day in school?”

He takes a step closer to me, his smile slipping a little, his eyes glued to mine. “Because I might want to talk to you when we’re not in school—you know, in private.”

I nod like I understand.

“So, are you going to give me your number?”

I take a deep breath just as the bell rings. “Hope you’ve got a good memory,” I say and then ramble off the number so fast he can’t possibly remember it. I walk away and head for class, knowing he has only five minutes to get to wherever his first-period class is or he’ll be late.

After I sit down I begin to wonder if he’ll remember the number. Then again, why do I care? What will I say when he calls—if he calls? No, forget it. I don’t want to talk to him any more than I want to talk to anybody else.

Except Ricky said that we’d get started today. I wonder if that means I’ll talk to him again.

Lunch is like organized chaos. The cafeteria is large with its yellow-and-white speckled tile floors and painted cinder block walls. The tables aren’t like the long Formica-topped ones in elementary and middle school. Instead they are real tables with plastic chairs that are scattered about. As at most high schools, there’s a cool-students side and a not-so-cool-students side. In the left corner near the fruit juice machine, that always stays full because if given the choice kids will definitely choose a soda before something that says “100% fruit juice,” the goths, geeks and any other looks, style or financially challenged students sit.

It’s weird, this class system here in Lincoln, Connecticut. Not weird in the sense that my school back in New York didn’t have student segregation, but in that most of these kids are segregated based on the neighborhood they live in.

Take, for instance, Chloe Delaney. She lives right near Sea Point, which has huge houses with decks and private boat docks. She’s a Richie and she sits on the right-hand side of the cafeteria with the other jocks and cheerleaders. Then there’s Kyle Bonagan. He lives by the water, too, only it’s called Dent Creek, past the railroad tracks on the eastern side of town. He’s a Tracker and sits on the left-hand side of the cafeteria with other students who are on the debate team or play in the band. Faith Mason wears black every day—black boots laced all the way up to her knees, black tights, black skirt, black tank top, black jacket. She wears thick black eyeliner, black lipstick and nails and has a gazillion piercings starting in the center of her lower lip. Of course, she sits by the fruit juice machine.

Then there’s another table, right by the exit doors. A group of guys sit there. I don’t know where they live but they’re wearing all the latest hip-hop gear: oversize shirts, baggy jeans, boots—brown or black—and they always wear flashy watches or chains. They aren’t really called anything and the other students keep their distance from them. I don’t know if it’s just their clothes—which would be mad stupid—or the fact that a couple of the guys are known for their bad attitudes and willingness to beat down anybody that even looks at them sideways.

Me, I live midway between the Richies and the no-names, those are the people who are considered middle class. We don’t have too much money but we have enough. I don’t dress like a goth or a geek but I’m definitely not a part of the hip-hop crowd either. So I sit at one of the center tables, which sometimes makes me feel like I’m on display. Usually I just pull out my bag lunch, slip my
earbuds in and listen to my iPod for the forty-five minutes that’s our only designated downtime.

So that’s what I’m doing today when my usually quiet table consisting of maybe one or two other no-names is invaded. I’ve already ignored my sandwich and only have my butterscotch crumpet and half a Sprite left from my lunch. I had pulled out the small sketchbook I carry around with me religiously but I hadn’t bothered to open it up yet. Ne-Yo is blasting from my iPod when I look up and notice who’s sitting across from me: Sasha Carrington—a Richie—and her faithful sidekick, Jake Kramer—a Tracker.

In the months that I’d been at Settlemans, this was by far one of the weirdest hookups I’d seen. Sasha is Latina or something, I think, despite the Anglo surname. Her hair is dark with golden highlights. Her skin is this olive color that reminds me of people I see on television who come from, like, Greece or the Mediterranean or someplace like that. She always dresses nicely, mostly in designer clothes, and carries a huge designer bag and wears makeup. Jake, on the other hand, has a shaggy kind of look. He’s pale, with dark brown hair that always looks like it needs to be cut. Today is no different—with big curly locks falling low on his forehead, almost brushing his shoulder. A Richie and a Tracker—I wonder if they are a couple, like, boyfriend and girlfriend.

“Hi,” Sasha says with her easy smile that makes her cheeks more prominent.

I lift a hand to wave, not wanting to give the impression that I’m happy to see them sitting there.

Jake waves back, the right corner of his mouth lifting in a shy smile.

“Whatcha listenin’ to?” Sasha asks.

I don’t really hear her. I’m just sort of reading her lips because my music is loud.

“Ne-Yo.”

Sasha nods. “‘So Sick of Love Songs?’”

I shake my head. “No. ‘Miss Independent.’”

“Oooh, the Jamie Foxx remix?” Jake asks.

I nod.

“Wanna go outside?”

“No,” I quickly reply.

“It’s loud in here,” Jake says.

I shrug. I was fine before they came. If it’s too loud for them, they can go outside.

They’re both quiet for a few minutes then Sasha stands and comes around the table. My hair is up in a ponytail as usual. Still I’m shocked when she taps the back of my neck and says, “Cool tat.”

Frowning, I realize she’s referring to the birthmark on the back of my neck. It kind of looks like a cursive
M.
I know this because I’ve looked in the mirror to see it a time or two. And I guess since I always wear my hair up, other people can see it, as well.

“It’s my birthmark,” I say, pulling away from her. It’s creepy the way she touches me, her fingers rubbing over the mark. I feel this weird stirring in the pit of my stomach, kind of like I need to throw up and then not.

Sasha and Jake look at each other then back to me. “We should go outside,” she says. “To talk.”

I’m confused. Why all of a sudden does Sasha, the Richie, want to talk to me? It doesn’t matter. I don’t want to talk to her.

Just as I open my mouth to say something, the bell rings. I yank my earbuds out and shrug again. “Too late. Gotta get to class.”