Page 20 of Ghost in the Night

“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.”