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A Girl, A Ghoul, A Goal |
| Written by Jennifer Anthony | |
| Wednesday, 11 April 2007 | |
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Share it:      It wasn’t that she had anything against them. And it didn’t matter that the ghost was a boy. All of her friends were boys. The problem was that Justine was a tomboy. She liked to play sports, and roughhouse, and even fight, when the need arose. She was a physical girl, not a spiritual one. The ghost surprised Justine one afternoon as she rifled through boxes in her grandmother’s attic, snooping for something interesting. She heard a cough behind her. Soft and polite, but startling nonetheless, as Justine had assumed she was alone. Grams had been too brittle and wobbly to climb the stairs for the past five years, and her mother wasn’t due to pick her up until the next day, after night fell. As her eyes adjusted to the dim light of the corner where Grams had stashed a small army of shadeless lamps, Justine saw nothing at first. But then she realized that one bulbous lamp was slightly fuzzy, as if a cloud hung before it. And then the cloud moved. It drifted slowly toward Justine, and as it did, she saw that it had a distinct outline, a shape. Like her own, almost, but an inch or so taller. It stopped two feet away from where Justine sat on a filthy box of books, hovering above the ground. Justine sat frozen, watching. For years, Grams had warned her that there was a ghost in the attic. But Justine had just turned ten years old and the night before, she had told Grams that she was no longer afraid of ghost stories. “It’s not a story,” Grams had said, without blinking. But Justine had stood defiant and proud. She’d insisted on visiting the attic. And Grams had finally unlocked the door, clucking her tongue and shaking her head. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you. And don’t come crying to me when he scares the hell out of you.” Grams was retired Navy. And from her days at sea, she had learned to conjure up a fantastic story or two, full of hyperbole and downright fabrication. And so Justine found it difficult to believe this story about the ghost. But now, with this apparition floating inches away from her, Justine’s dry mouth and prickly skin could only mean one thing: she was scared. “You’re not screaming,” the cloud-ghost said, softly. Justine attempted to speak. “Did – did you want me to?” The cloud-ghost wobbled, and Justine assumed he was shaking his head. “No. But I thought you would be scared. Your grandmother was, the first time she saw me.” “Reallllly?” Justine said. She straightened. “Did she scream?” “Yes,” the ghost answered. “Very loudly. So loud that I was scared, too!” Justine glanced at the window behind her, where the sun hung, fat and sloppy, above the horizon. It spewed light through the branches of the oak tree in Grams’s yard and through the small dingy window, crosshatched with thick cobwebs. “I thought ghosts only came out at night,” she said. “Some do,” he said. “It’s easier not to be seen. And easier not to scare people.” Justine chortled, just like Grams did when she heard a whopper. “Right. And you don’t like to scare people. Puh-lease.” The ghost raised his voice. “That is a stereotype. Take it back.” Justine drew wobbly lines in the dust that coated the box beneath her. “You’re sensitive as a girl.” “Another stereotype,” the ghost said. “And you’re a girl!” Justine blew the dust off her fingers and watched it float toward – and through – the ghost. “So. How did you die?” she asked. The ghost drifted away from her until he was floating just before the window and nearly invisible. “Why is that always one of the first questions people ask? So rude.” Justine sat silently, waiting. He reminded her a little of her friend Clarence, who rarely gave a straight answer unless pressed. She had to be firm. “Just tell me.” “I drowned, okay? I jumped in the swimming hole, thinking I could teach myself how to swim, and I drowned.” Justine shrugged. “Don’t have to be so pinchy about it. Everyone’s got to die somehow.” The ghost seemed to be pacing back and forth before the window. “So you don’t think that’s embarrassing? A stupid way to die?” “Nope. I almost died last year, trying to teach myself how to rappel down the tree in my neighbor’s yard. I accidentally fell.” “I don’t even know what rappelling is,” the ghost said. “Sheesh!” Justine cried. “How long have you been dead?” “Fifty years or so. I was in this attic before your grandmother moved in.” “Fifty years? What do you do all day?” Justine asked, incredulous. “I don’t know. Poke around. Look through the window. I’m too scared to go outside.” Justine was standing now, hands on hips. “Scared? Ghosts are supposed to do the scaring.” She scanned the room for the ghost but couldn’t see him, then detected his faint outline before the window. “I told you that not all ghosts like to do that.” Justine narrowed her eyes, but this time it wasn’t because she was straining to see the boy. She was thinking of her soccer game the next afternoon. Her team would be pitted against the team from two blocks over, who were said to be very fierce. She had secretly worried about it for days now. The night before she had awoken in a cold sweat, all of the blankets on the floor, clutching the stuffed alligator that she kept hidden until nighttime. “Did people play soccer all those years ago?” she asked. “Of course,” the ghost said. “We weren’t running around with dinosaurs.” Justine laughed. “But were you any good?” “Oh,” the ghost said, in nearly a whisper. “I didn’t say I played. I was much more of a reader.” Justine’s sigh was long and loud. “You are exasperating,” she said. “Your grandma says that,” he said. “How do you know that?” she asked. “I know everything,” he replied. “I even know about Allie. Your stuffed alligator?” Justine’s hands curled into fists at her side. “You better not tell anyone!” The ghost laughed. “Go ahead. Try and punch me.” Justine was used to solving skirmishes with her fists. But it seemed she would have to actually talk to this friend. She watched the flimsy curtain over the window flutter as the ghost continued to pace. “You’re bored, and I have a soccer game to win tomorrow. I think I’ve got a perfect solution.” *** The soccer game was scheduled to start in fifteen minutes. Justine stood among her teammates on the grass, stretching her thighs and calves, twirling her arms in circles, and rolling her head like all the professionals did. She cursed whomever had decided to water the grass just that morning: it would be slippery and muddy, another disadvantage against the opposing team who had arrived in expensive cleats. She checked her watch for the fifth time since arriving at the field. Fourteen minutes until gametime, and no sign of the ghost. She reached down to touch the grass at her feet, surreptitiously gazing around for any sign of him. He would be difficult to see unless one were really straining, which is exactly what she had been counting on, of course. But she wondered if she had made a mistake, counting on a ghost. There was nothing she could do if he didn’t show up, other than give him a stern scolding, as her grandmother would do. The minutes fell away, and soon the two teams had gathered on the field, assuming their positions. Justine stood near the center of the field, facing the opposing team’s right forward, a boy a head or so taller than her, and fifty pounds heavier. “A girl,” the brute said, and laughed. He was already sweating. Justine kept her eyes trained on the makeshift goal across the field, struggling to stay calm. Her team captain blew the whistle. The opposing team’s center forward tapped it back to the brute, who began to dribble toward her, a smug smile on his face. He kicked it farther ahead of him than necessary, sure that he had nothing to fear. As he approached, Justine heard a whisper behind her. “Got it,” a voice said. She felt a wind rush by her, toward the direction of the soccer ball that sat still on the field, waiting for the brute to kick it again. But a sudden wind propelled it backward to Justine’s right foot. She stopped it with her instep and drove it toward the goal. With one firm kick, the ball flew from her foot and past the goalie. “You did it,” the ghost whispered, just behind her. “We did it,” Justine corrected. She wished she could give him a high five, but realized her words would have to be enough.
Copyright 2007 Jennifer Anthony {moscomment} |
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