The police never gave me my jet pack back. Guess they destroyed it to make sure it wasn’t a bomb. It meant I didn’t have a costume for Halloween, which was okay because I didn’t feel much like dressing up anymore. A couple weeks after I got back from suspension, things finally started quieting down. “Bomb Boy” stuck, but mostly life was getting back to normal. My parents even said I could maybe go back to makerspace club after winter break.
That’s when I started getting the texts. I ignored them. I’d gotten real good at ignoring things I didn’t want to see or hear. I never told my parents. I didn’t want to worry them even more. I was trying to be a good son. They both seemed so tired after my arrest. Even their bodies moved slower, like they were kind of broken. Like they got old overnight.
I guess I should have told them about the texts. I guess I should’ve told someone. But it was easier to pretend that nothing was happening. That everything was okay. All I needed to do, I thought, was keep my head down. Keep my eyes on my own paper. Keep my mouth shut. Disappear. I tried to make myself invisible. Turned out I was too good at it. Turned out vanishing was my superpower.
I died clutching my key chain. That silver hand of Fatima I’d held on to for so many years and always had with me. I thought about the last time I needed it, when I was a real boy.
Now all I am is a whisper in the dark to a girl who doesn’t want to believe in ghosts. How do I get Safiya to believe in me? I need someone to believe in me.