Joshua Johnson

"Come on! Pass it!” shouted a stocky thirteen-year-old redhead in an NBA mock up uniform for the Chicago Bulls, a fan aspiring to be one of the players.

Rick Deacon ignored him and passed the ball to one of his other classmates, a tall fourteen-year-old African-American who flubbed the catch then double dribbled the ball.

The whistle blew as the coach called it.

Everyone moaned. Some of them cursed at the boy.

“Deacon!” That redhead stomped over to Rick, his freckled face shoved into the boy’s so he could meet Rick’s haunting gray eyes with menace. “What did you pass it to him for? Just because he’s black doesn’t mean he is a good player. I was open.”

“Yeah, but you’re a ball hog and this is practice,” Rick snapped back, wiping his rust brown hair out of his eyes. “And he needs all the practice he can get.”

“We need a win against the ninth grade, Deacon,” the boy said, clenching his teeth. “The only way to win is to practice winning.”

Rick replied with a huff then turned to keep playing. “Get that stick out of your butt, Lee. It’s only a game.”

“What did you say to me?” Lee, the redhead, thrust his chest into Rick’s face.

They would have gotten into a fight but the coach interfered, shoving both boys back from each other.

“You know,” said Matthew Calamori, a brown-haired sophomore who was leaning near his platinum blonde pal, Tom Brown, as they stood on the sidelines of the game watching the eighth graders play, “It is so funny how barely anyone has noticed that he is a ghoulie.”

“He doesn’t look like a ghoulie, or act like one,” Tom replied with a shrug, adjusting his sunglasses over his orange eyes. “Even his eyebrows are more normal.”

“That’s the effect of the full moon, I guess,” Matt said.

They had been watching the game, mostly scouting out the competition. On Rick’s team there were two ghoulies besides him, and almost no one passed them the ball. Only Rick was trying to include everyone. Their African American classmate had a curse that had been set on him by a voodoo witchdoctor in Louisiana. The boy had lost all of his family, but he couldn’t die himself. He had been drowned, stabbed, shot, and beaten up a number of times, but was still living. And whoever tried to attack him, if he touched them, they suffered by the very wounds they had inflicted on him. Most of the kids at Gulinger stayed five feet away from him, including Matt’s group. Only Rick talked to him even after hearing about the curse. The other ghoulie was a guy from Seattle whose father had dabbled in witchcraft and had tortured him like Randon’s mother and sister had done, only this boy escaped with just scars and posttraumatic stress syndrome. He was a jumpy fellow, twitchy.

The game went back into full motion. As they watched the eighth graders practice, both Matt and Tom noticed Rick really was good at basketball. When Rick had first settled in his room, he put posters of his favorite basketball players on his walls and laid out an NBA bedspread. He even had a signed jersey and a photograph with him standing next to his favorite NBA player. In all cases, he came across as a normal kid—except for his allergy to garlic, honey, and silver; and the occasional wolf-like twitch when he heard things that no one else could because of the pitch. But here he proved that his love for basketball was not just in watching the game. And better yet, he was a good sport when he played.

He made a three point shot.

His team cheered.

“Oh, look at that,” Matt pointed across the gym to where a tall dark haired boy entered the room from another door. “It’s Joshua Johnson.”

“JJ? What’s he doing here? Isn’t he a senior?” Tom peered at Joshua also.

Matt shrugged. “Yeah. And he isn’t into sports unless it’s like racquetball.”

“He was a quiet fellow…” Tom broke into a sultry narrative voice typical for a horror newsreel about some mass murderer.

Joshua walked around the edge of the room, fixing his eyes on Rick as he played. Rick didn’t seem to notice he was being watched, or rather he didn’t show that he cared one way or another about it. He had passed the ball to that obnoxious redhead, Lee, who then went in to do a lay-up to show off. Rick Deacon rushed over to catch the rebound, just in case.

“Hi,” Joshua said, walking up to Matt.

“Hi,” Matt replied, folding his arm across his chest.

Tom smirked at the dark-headed, senior. “What motivated you to crawl out of your deep dark hole?”

“Funny.” Joshua hardly looked at Tom though. He gestured towards Rick. “I hear that’s Mr. Deacon’s son. Is that true?”

Matt and Tom nodded together.

“Did you know Mr. Deacon is a werewolf?” Joshua asked.

Matt lifted his head to stare at him. “You knew that?”

“Did some ghost tell you that?” Tom asked.

Joshua cast Tom a dirty look. Tom clapped for joy, since Joshua was a hard person to rile up.

“No. My father did,” Joshua said.

This time Tom looked impressed. “Wow. Your dad has unlimited depths. How did he find out?”

“How did you?” Joshua asked Tom, his face as straight as his stiff neck.

Tom rolled his eyes. “Do you have to ask?”

“We wheedled it out of Rick,” Matt said.

Tom swatted him in the stomach with the back of his hand. “You’re spoiling my fun.”

But Matt only laughed at him. “Nah, nah. So what.”

“His name is Rick?” Joshua stared at Rick now who was laughing with the tall Louisianan ghoulie who had just made a successful basket. “But I thought he’d be called something like Howard. You know, the third—like that.”

Matt snorted. “He is, but he’s been going by Rick. He won’t answer to Howard.”

“Who would?” Tom said.

The whistle blew again. The players stopped due to a foul. Rick passed the ball to their Louisiana player who prepared for a free throw. They heard Rick say, “You can do it. Just keep your eye on the square. Hit anywhere on it and you can get it in.”

“He doesn’t seem scared of anything,” Joshua murmured, examining Rick. “Good.”

Matt glanced at Tom who looked back at him with a tinge of worry uncommon for him.

“What do you mean good?” Matt asked.

Joshua drew in a breath as the game continued. He took in Matt’s suspicious expression only slightly, mostly watching Rick catch the rebound and shoot it into the basket. “Nothing.”

“No…” Matt stepped closer to him. “There is no nothing. You have a lot that can be said. I hear it.”

“A refusal to speak to you is not a lie,” Joshua replied, turning to look at him. “What I have to say is for that boy only. Not you.”

“Yeah?” Matt lifted his chin, thrusting out his chest. “Well his father asked me to watch out for him, so it does concern me.”

Joshua peered at Matt then huffed. “I see. Well then, you get to hear when I talk to him. But what I have to say is still not for you.”

The game finished. Rick jogged over with his team to their coach for one last instruction period before heading towards the locker room.

“Hey! Rick! Come here for a second!” Matt waved to him.

Several heads turned when Matt called. Rick rolled his eyes but also put on a smirk as he turned to go to him.

Lee stopped Rick before he could get very far, grabbing his arm. “I wouldn’t hang out with that guy too much, Deacon. They’re ghoulies.”

“So?” Rick snorted.

Their Louisiana teammate grinned, jogging into the locker room with their twitchy teammate who had already gone ahead.

Clenching Rick’s arm tighter, Lee whispered with a hiss, “They’re freaks, especially that blonde and that senior over there with Calamori.”

Rick growled low in his throat. “Call them freaks again, and I’ll bite you.”

Lee let go, pulling back from him.

The moment he was free, Rick jogged to the three boys, looking first to Matt, though he peered at Joshua with a smelling sniff. “What is it? I need to go shower.”

Matt waved to Joshua. “This is Joshua Johnson, the guy we told you about whose dad is an NYPD cop. He wants to talk to you.”

Turning to face Joshua, Rick looked him up and down then said, “So, they say you’re a ghoulie too. What is your curse?”

Not missing a step, Joshua replied, “I can see ghosts.”

Rick blinked. “You mean

Impressum

Verlag: BookRix GmbH & Co. KG

Tag der Veröffentlichung: 28.07.2012
ISBN: 978-3-7368-4017-1

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