SIX
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t still thinking about the photo, Myah, and the haunted house the next afternoon. Did Myah really hear screams inside?
Robby, meanwhile, is standing in front of his house, dressed head to toe in every possible protective padding you could own, his helmet making his head look bigger than it already is.
“Man, it’s not going to hurt you,” Dad says, laughing. “Come on!”
Robby shakes his head, helmet jiggling. “Studies show that the most common bone break and skull fractures have been from attempting a bike ride.”
Daddy grips the handle of the small black bike, rocking it back and forth. “Well. Good thing you have your … uh … safety gear.”
“Yo, you’re ten,” I say.
“You need to know how to ride a bike,” Daddy says. “How else do you plan on keeping up with all the other kids?”
Robby squirms. “Um, have my mom drop me off … I guess.”
On the porch, Lena watches with a tight smile, arms crossed over her chest. When Daddy offered to teach Robby how to ride the bike that had been collecting dust in the backyard, she was all for it. Now, it seems like she’s ready to toss the bike into the nearest dumpster.
“You mean none of your friends ride bikes?” I ask.
“I … don’t know anyone who rides a bike,” Robby says, avoiding my stare.
Daddy raises an eyebrow at me. Sounds like Robby really doesn’t have any friends to visit even if he could ride his bike.
“Well, say, man, let’s just give it a try. All right? Here we go.”
I prop up my camera and take a few shots of Robby very cautiously climbing onto the seat, gripping the handles, wobbling.
Dad stands behind him, holding it steady.
They work on scooting and mastering balancing.
And even with Dad’s gentle coaching, Robby’s only able to glide a few feet before fear gets the better of him.
“I—I can’t break my wrists,” Robby sputters, a tremor in his voice. “These are my playing hands for my games.”
Dad helps him off the bike. “Hey, man, I get it. Can’t break my wrists either. Playing hands too.”
Robby smiles, relieved. “Thanks.”
“Now, I’m not giving up on you,” Daddy warns. “Riding a bike is scary at first, but then you get used to it. And if something breaks … well, then you’ll have a cool story to tell while it heals.”
Robby nervously glances at me. “Um. We can play something else,” he offers. “Maybe a board game!”
“Maybe,” I say. “I got a call to make so … brB.”
I run to the guesthouse and FaceTime with the girls.
“You hear from the Studio Museum yet?” Kiki asks. She’s sitting outside on her stoop.
I glance at my desk and the large envelope on it, with printouts of all my portfolio photos. I wanted to show Dad the final versions. Plus, I just like to have photos around.
“Sending the application in today. All I have to do is add one last photo … with a little explanation about it.”
“Ain’t today the last day to do it?” Truth asks. “Quit playing. You know your photos are fire!”
“Yeah, especially the ones with me in them. Ha!” Kiki laughs.
I sigh. “But what if they’re not?”
“Stop tripping,” Truth says. “Everything is gonna be fine.”
I take a deep breath and open my laptop.
“Okay, so I think this year we should get matching jackets,” Kiki is saying, unwrapping a lollipop. “You know, like the ones sports players be wearing.”
I scroll through my files and open up the application, a few lines left blank to allow a description for the last photo in my portfolio. I type out the sentence, slow.
Photo number five: A haunted home in Savannah, Georgia, located above an African burial ground. Notice the white lights in the bottom left window and the shadowy figure. Like most ancestors, this ghost still has a lot to say.
Does that make sense? Does Tim Truman have something he wants to tell us? Is that why he’s waiting by the window? Or is the Studio going to think that I’m—like Robby keeps saying—nuts? Only one way to find out.
“But we don’t play any sports,” Truth says with a chuckle. “Or y’all don’t.”
“I think it would be cute! Or, like, we could each take a color. I call dibs on purple though.”
I save the application and drop the file in an email.
“Mony, what you think?” Kiki asks.
“Oh, uh, yeah,” I say. “Sounds cool.”
I hold my breath and press send.
When I walk into the house, Robby and Lena are sitting at the table, a pitcher of iced lemonade and plate of cookies between them.
“Hey, Harmony,” Lena says. “We’re about to play some Monopoly. Want to join us?”
“You can join,” Robby says with stone-cold seriousness, “but I’m warning you that I’m the car and I’m always the car.”
I lick my lips, staring at the Monopoly box on the table. It’s a Pokémon edition, not the classic we have at home.
Not like Grandma’s.
I swallow hard. “Ummm … maybe another time.”
Grandma loved games. Poker, gin, blackjack, even solitaire when no one was around.
But with me, she always played Monopoly.
Said it was good for life skills, learning about finances and real estate strategy, which seemed mad silly.
She’d always buy a bunch of buildings and do this evil giggle every time I landed on her square and had to pay her rent.
I haven’t played since she died, and I don’t think I’m ready to try yet.
“Coming up on the hour, updates on the Rebecca Hutton case …”
I turn to see the local news on TV. They’re showing a photo of a pretty white girl with long brown hair who’s gone missing.
Apparently Rebecca Hutton is a twenty-three-year-old grad student from Virginia who was last seen leaving a bar on River Street at one in the morning.
Video shows her walking past a Christmas store, then entering a hotel.
She was never seen again and everyone is now obsessed with the story.
I notice there’s no mention of Mr. Truman or Jabari. I can’t believe this isn’t national news by now. The streets should be filled with cops searching for Jabari. I glance at Lena, wondering if she’s thinking the same thing.
“Mailing something?” Lena asks, nodding at the envelope in my hand.
“No, it’s just some stuff I was gonna show Dad …”
“He already headed to the club for the night. Something about practicing some new songs?”
“Oh, then I’ll just—” As I wave the envelope, I realize I didn’t seal it, and some of the contents come spilling out, papers flying. I gasp and dive onto the floor, my heart almost falling out of my mouth.
Lena picks up the picture of the Myers House that floats right by her shoes.
“What’s this?”
Robby’s eyes stretch wide as he watches Lena with the picture.
I try to act smooth and not raise any red flags as I refill the envelope.
“Oh. A picture I took on that ghost tour the other day.”
Lena nods, impressed. “It’s nice! Kind of creepy … but that’s the whole point with those silly tours, isn’t it?” She hands me back the photo. “Where was this one taken?” she asks.
I hesitate before telling her. “Calhoun Square.”
“Mmmm. The African burial ground. Sacred land.”
“Wait! You know about it? They say that place is really haunted.”
Lena smiles and rolls her eyes. “Depends on what you consider haunted to be. The ancestors are there, watching over us, protecting us from things we don’t see. Just because they don’t take no mess don’t mean they’re all bad.”
“What else do you know about Calhoun Square?” I ask her, intrigued.
“The historical society has been petitioning to have the name changed, to reflect and honor our ancestors. Tim Truman was leading the charge.”
I perk up. Tim Truman? Could that be why he was so interested in that house? Maybe Myah was right, after all, and the ghost in there is him.
I want to ask Lena more about Tim Truman and Calhoun Square, but I don’t want her to get suspicious. So I bite my tongue and head back to the guesthouse.