Hurricane ~ L. Valdez

2.16- If the World was Fair

We were standing in what looked like the court yard of an old monastery, lined with red brick walls that were overgrown with vines. The roots of magnolia trees had cracked the pavement. The weather was hot and sticky, the air more humid than anything I'd felt in my life. I could vaguely smell fish frying from somewhere nearby.

The courtyard wasn't large... maybe the size of a basketball court. In its corner was a statue of the Virgin Mary, reminding me of the Zeus statue in Cabin One. Along the sides of the buildings around us, windows were open. I could see flickers of movement inside, but it was quiet... too quiet.

"Where are we?" Leo asked.

"My old school," Hazel said from beside us. "St. Agnes Academy for Colored Children and Indians."

My head swivelled to look at Hazel. "What kind of name—?" I stopped in my tracks, letting out a noise of surprise at her appearance. She was see-through, like a ghost. I turned to Leo to see that he was see-through as well, and looked down to see my own misty fingers. Leo opened his mouth, probably to ask whether this ghosty thing was normal, but before he had the chance, a bell rang— not a modern electronic sound, but the old-fashioned buzz of a hammer on metal.

"This is a memory," Hazel answered for us, "so no one will see us. Look, here we come."

"We?"

Suddenly the area exploded with children, groups of people running through the courtyard, yelling and jostling each other. The kids were mostly African American, though there were a few Hispanic-looking kids. The age range was pretty surprising, including kids as young as kindergartners and as old as high schoolers.

It looked like a scene out of a movie. The girls wore dresses and buckled leather shoes. The boys wore white collared shirts and pants held up by suspenders. Some kids carried lunches. Many didn't. Their clothes were clean, but worn and faded. Some had holes in the knees of their trousers, or shoes with the heels coming apart. A few of the girls began playing jump rope with an old piece of clothesline. The older guys tossed a ratty baseball back and forth. Kids with lunches sat together and ate and chatted.

No one seemed to notice our existence, and I couldn't recognize anyone in the small crowd. Then Hazel—from the past, not Ghost Hazel—stepped into the courtyard. She looked the same, maybe a little younger. Her chocolate brown cuts were pinned back in a bun, bouncing as she walked. Her gold eyes darted around the courtyard uneasily. Unlike the other girls in the crowd, her dress was dark, standing out drastically from the light floral patterns around her. She was holding a canvas lunch bag tightly and moved along the wall of the courtyard, looking down as if she did not want to be noticed. That didn't really work. Out of nowhere, a boy called out, "Witch girl!"

It was hard to tell how old the boy was due to how big he was. His build put that off Charles Beckendorf, a boy who use to tower over me, to shame. His shirt was dirty and stained and he wore threadbare wool trousers, all without shoes.

"That's Rufus," said Ghost Hazel, and I could tell that this 'Rufus' did not have good memories associated with him.

"Seriously? No way his name is Rufus," Leo said. There was a small upturn of my lips at Leo's quip, but Hazel's mind wasn't focused on jokes.

"Come on," said Ghost Hazel, leading us toward the confrontation. We made our way over, gliding in our ghost form. Rufus had a flat face, if that makes sense. He reminded me of a cartoon character that had just got stepped on and he had a mean look to him, like some of the kids at Wilderness Prep.

Rufus thrust out his hand. "Lunch." If it was me, I would've decked the kid in the face- or other areas. However, Hazel from the past didn't protest. She simply handed over her canvas bag like this was an everyday occurrence.