SEVEN
When I wake up the next morning, Daddy is already up and out, which is strange. Being a musician all his life, he’s a night owl and never an early riser. I find him at Lena’s table eating eggs and bacon, dressed for the day, along with Lena and Robby.
“Morning, Mony love,” Daddy says, sipping some coffee. Robby follows, sipping what looks like very milky hot chocolate.
“Hey,” I say, fidgeting with my pj’s. “What’s going on?”
“They’re having that memorial for Tim Truman today,” Lena says as she sets a plate down for me. “Figured it’d be nice if we show our faces.”
“It’s casual,” Daddy tells me. “Nothing we gotta dress up for. I promise.”
I nod. A few days ago, the thought of going to this memorial filled me with dread. But now that Myah put the idea of Tim Truman’s ghost into my head, I wonder if I could learn more about him.
It’s a short walk from Lena’s house to the home of Ms. Trina, one of Tim’s oldest friends.
The backyard of the small red house is filled with people.
White balloons are tied along the fence and tables are spread out, some wrapped in newspaper, others covered in food and drinks.
Mr. Truman’s picture is blown up on a big poster.
At the far end of the yard is a DJ that looks a little like Daddy’s best friend, Uncle Scott.
Another person mans the grill, smoking ribs.
No one I see seems sad. More like, they all just chilling, glad to be in each other’s company.
Lena walks around the party, giving out hugs and introducing Dad to everyone, with Robby in tow. I hang back, anxious again about being this near to people who are grieving. Even if they look happy, this is not a birthday party.
Two women walk out the house with huge pots, heading for the tables.
“Watch it now! Watch it!”
They scatter a jumble of steaming seafood on the table, just like what Lena made for us on our first night.
“Baby, what you doing? You lost?”
I spin to see a woman around Lena’s age talking to me.
“I … uh … I …”
“Go on, get yourself a plate before it’s all gone,” she says, pushing me toward the food.
“Wait. I—”
“Trina, who dat is there?” the man at the grill yells.
“Ron’s baby girl,” Ms. Trina shouts back, patting my shoulder. “You know she shy.”
I don’t know a Ron, but it seems too late to correct her. She’s already plopping me into a chair, handing me a plastic bib and a silver nutcracker. I stare at it.
“For the crab legs,” Ms. Trina instructs, then walks off to help more people.
“Um, thanks,” I squeak, giving my neighbor a polite smile. I pluck a corn on the cob out of the pile of shrimp, potatoes, and crab legs, all dripping with a peppery red sauce. It tastes delicious, like an explosion of seasonings, a whole party in my mouth.
Down the table, everyone is laughing, eating, and telling stories. Some have plates of red rice with okra, peas, sausage, and corn bread. Stuff my grandma loved to make. I fumble a bit with the nutcracker on a lobster claw, and one of my neighbors helps without me having to ask.
When I feel I can’t fit another shrimp into my stomach, I grab a roll of paper towel, wiping my hands clean as a man at the end of the table raises his cup.
“To Tim-bo. Gone on to glory way too soon.”
“Man changed all our lives over here.”
“Boy, he loved going fishing. Just about lived on a boat as a kid. And them oysters hate to see him coming!”
The group cackles.
“Remember when he did that food drive?”
“And them group tours! Had them white folks pouring libations in Calhoun Square, making them apologize for they ancestors. Now that was something!”
The table laughs. I pay close attention.
“I went on one of his tours not too long ago, when I had some family visiting,” a woman says. “Learned a thing or two myself. That’s what I loved about him. He never let you forget where you come from.”
“His nephews loved visiting they uncle every summer,” another woman says tearfully. “Young Jabari just about followed him wherever he went. Sitting right up under him on every tour. He could’ve probably run it himself. I hope they find him soon. Just breaks my heart.”
“Who they think did it? They got any clue?”
“Y’all quit talking all loud like that,” Ms. Trina says, coming back to the table. “You know his family here. Show some respect!”
“But, Trina, all we want to know is—what the cops talking ’bout?”
The man at the grill sucks his teeth. “Not a thing! You know they too busy searching for the Hutton girl.”
“The white lady who went missing on River Street?”
“Yeah, yeah. That’s the one. Seen her face every dang time I turn on the TV.”
“I heard that cash reward is up to somethin’ like ten thousand dollas.”
“Yeah, and not a penny offered up for little Jabari,” Ms. Trina says, shaking her head.
“Ain’t that something!” the man at the grill says. “People been looking for him all over, hanging up signs, making our own search parties, but none of them cops want to help none. Shoo.”
“His poor mama,” a woman whispers. “Life ain’t ever gonna be the same with him gone.”
My throat closes up and I immediately shove back from the table, trying to get as far away from everyone as possible, holding back tears. Because they’re right …
Life is never the same once someone you love is gone.
I walk to the front yard, hoping to find a safe space to escape for a little while. Real talk, I’m ready to head back now, but I doubt Lena wants to go and Daddy will just make up some reason to stay.
Out front, on the gray porch, a woman sits alone. She has smooth brown skin, her hair pulled back in a frizzy ponytail, dark eyes puffy, holding a tissue in one hand and a stack of flyers in her lap. She stares at one of the flyers, unblinking.
A flyer whirls by and I snatch it off the ground, still keeping out of sight.
MISSING: JABARI ROBINSON
Same one Myah showed us in the shop. It lists all his details. Age: ten. Weight: eighty pounds. Last seen wearing blue-and-white shirt and black shorts.
The woman must be Jabari’s mother. She looks so … heartbroken. That’s what they said I looked like at Grandma’s funeral. Like my heart had been broken into pieces so tiny and scattered that my body didn’t know how to operate.
I peep that the flyers were slipped onto every windshield of every car parked nearby. While people party out back, she has been working. She probably can’t rest until she finds her little boy.
A hand taps my shoulder, and I jump with a yelp.
Myah.
“Hey,” she says, staring at the flyer.
“Hey,” I say, shocked to see her. Was she standing behind me this whole time? “What are you doing here? I didn’t know you knew the family like that.”
She nods. “Everyone knew Mr. Truman. He wouldn’t hurt nobody! Someone did him wrong.”
“Oh, yeah,” I mumble.
“But it’s good you’re here. So we can tell somebody about what we saw.”
“Wait, what?”
“Harmony!” Robby comes running out from the backyard. “Your daddy’s looking for you.” He stops short at the sight of Myah.
“Let’s see about this first!” Myah says, holding up a copy of the zoomed-in photo.
Robby’s eyes widen. “Oh no.”
“What are you about to do with that?” I ask Myah.
“I’mma tell people where they can find Tim Truman’s spirit.”
I look back at Mrs. Robinson, wiping away tears, and my heart hurts for her.
We can’t show her that photo because what if it’s not Tim Truman’s ghost?
What if it’s just the old-timey ghost of Elizabeth Myers?
I would hate to disappoint a grieving family.
’Cause I know all about grief and the way it makes you hold on to hope.
And a picture like this can do more damage than good.
I whip back to Myah. “You can’t do that to them.”
“Come on,” Myah says, marching to the front door.
I glance at Robby, who shrugs, and we follow.
Inside it’s narrow and hot, like all the ovens are on broil. A few people are scattered around each room, fanning themselves. Myah zooms around like a shark, searching. It’s almost hard to keep up with her. But in the very back of the house, in a small dining room, Myah stops.
“Hi, Ms. Trina.”
Ms. Trina, bending to grab some cups out of a cabinet, stands up straight.
“Oh! Hi, Myah,” Ms. Trina says, placing the cups on the table. “I didn’t see you out there. Your daddy here yet?”
“Yes. He out there with Mama.” Myah takes a deep breath. “Um, Ms. Trina, you know Mr. Truman’s sister, Mrs. Robinson, well, right?”
“Yes, ma’am. Going on about thirty years. She … not ready to talk to anyone right now.” She wrings her hands nervously, glancing out the window at the cars, flyers flapping in the light breeze.
“Well, um …” Myah looks at me. “We think we know something about what happened to Mr. Truman.”
Ms. Trina’s smile falls. “What? What you going on about, girl? Spit it out!”
Myah pulls the photo out of her pocket and slides it across the table. She points to the lights in the window.
“We think this shadow—and these lights—are Mr. Truman. Well, his ghost.”
“Who is we?” Robby says under his breath, crossing his arms.
Ms. Trina stares at the photo. I can’t get a good read of her face, but her body language is giving … angry.
“Hang on,” she snaps, holding her hand up. “Is this about to be some ghost story?”
“Nooo,” I cut in. “I mean, I don’t think so. Well, I guess I …”
Ms. Trina sucks her teeth and shoves the photo toward Myah.
“Chile, I ain’t in no mood for these games.”
Myah stabs the picture with her finger. “This isn’t a game! That’s—”
“I mean it now! Mr. Truman is gone, Jabari’s missing, and you carrying on about some ghost.” She lowers her voice. “And his family is around here. You trying to upset them or something?”
“No. We’re just trying to help!” Myah pleads, seeming desperate.
“Um, ma’am,” I start, trying to lighten the mood. “Maybe you could look at the photo again. The ghost tour we went on said—”
“See, now that’s the problem with these ghost tours, letting young kids on them. Filling your heads with all kinds of nonsense. If it’s not ghost stuff, it’s those psychics and voodoo ladies, claiming they know where bodies are buried, sending everyone on wild-goose chases!”
I clear my throat. “I get not believing in this kind of stuff. But you gotta admit the orbs look very … real.”
Ms. Trina waves her hand. “This photo could have been made using … what they call it, AI, Photoshop, or whatever you kids are into nowadays.”
Robby frowns, speaking up for the first time. “Uh, Ms. Trina, I know a lot about computer programs and let me tell you, these girls wouldn’t know how to do anything like that.” He points a thumb at Myah. “She’s got a computer from the 1900s.”
Myah narrows her eyes at him. But it’s true. We wouldn’t know how to make something like this. And the photo came directly from my memory card.
“Enough,” Ms. Trina says. “I don’t want to hear no more of this ghost mumbo jumbo. Now get before I tell your momma what you been up to.”
That’s all Robby needs to hear. He spins around and practically runs out the front door.
I stay with Myah, watching her face turn red, her eyes glassing over before she storms out the house. I grab the photo and follow.
On the sidewalk, Myah paces back and forth. “I knew no one was gonna wanna listen,” she says with a huff.
I glance back at the party. “Yo, I know this stuff is kinda creepy. But Ms. Trina didn’t even want to hear anything you had to say. Just blew you off like you’re some kid.”
“She IS some kid,” Robby corrects me.
My hands roll into fists. That’s the real problem.
Kids know a lot more than adults think. So what if Ms. Trina doesn’t believe in ghosts?
She could have listened, looked at the photo.
I’ve been on enough ghost tours to know there’s some facts to these stories.
Ghost tours pass through that square every night. Maybe they …
Oh. Ohhhhhhhh!
The idea is sticky, risky, but it might just work.
“Hang on!” I tell Myah and Robby. “It’s not over yet! We gotta show them. Don’t tell them.”
I wave my photo in the air.
Myah and Robby stare at me blank faced.
“Is that some New York slang or something?” Myah asks.
“My grandma used to say that to me. You gotta show people what you’re about, don’t just tell them.”
“What does that mean?” Robby asks, growing frustrated.
“It means, we’re gonna find out what happened to Tim Truman!”
“And how are we going to do that?”
I study the picture of the house. It’s spooky looking, like it belongs on the cover of some horror novel in the library.
“We’re gonna prove that the house is really haunted by going in there, Ghost Hunters style.”
Myah looks at me silently while I go on to explain.
“I’ve learned a lot about ghost hunting the last six months.
They say if something happens once, it’s a coincidence.
But twice is a pattern and three times is fact.
If we get more evidence than just this picture, ghost hunters will take us seriously.
The more people that know that place is haunted, the more word will spread, then everybody will HAVE to listen to us. ”
Myah nods, holding her necklace. “And I know how to prove it too. If we can reach Mr. Truman’s spirit, we can find out what happened to him. He can tell us what happened to Jabari! We could save him!”
I turn to Robby. “You down?”
He sighs and shakes his head at the ground. “This is not how I planned to spend my summer.”
I butter him up to seal the deal. “Yo, we’re gonna need your tech skills. For equipment and stuff.”
He brightens at this opportunity. “Oh! Well, in that case. Okay.”
“But you can’t tell your mom.” I don’t know her like that, but Lena doesn’t seem to be down with the ghost stuff anyway. We gotta do this without adults.
Robby rolls his eyes. “I know. I wasn’t born yesterday.”
“Okay,” Myah says. “We got our own Ghostbusters crew.”