Ghost Boys Quotes

I’m dead.

I thought I was bigger. Tough. But I’m just a bit of nothing.

My arms are outstretched like I was trying to fly like Superman.

I’m pudgy, easily teased. But when I’m a grown-up, everybody’s going to be my friend. I might even be president. Like Obama.

Grandma dropped out of elementary school to care for her younger sisters. Ma and Pop finished high school. Me and Kim are supposed to go to college.

Ma always says, “In this neighborhood, getting a child to adulthood is perilous.”

I looked up the word. Perilous. “Risky, dangerous.”

“Every goodbye ain’t gone,” Grandma says.

“Emmett. Just like Emmett Till,” says Grandma. “He was a Chicago boy, too.”

“This isn’t 1955,” says Reverend, calming.

“Tamir Rice, then,” shouts Pop. “2014. He died in Cleveland. Another boy shot just because he’s black.”

“In San Antonio, school’s always trouble. Everyone fights. Everyone’s afraid. I hope it’s better here.”

The tuna’s dirt dry. I almost choke. “We fight here, too,” I say, honest. “That’s why we have security guards. Metal detectors.”

“You’re nothing in Chicago. Say it.” Snap twists Carlos’s arm. “Say it, ‘I’m nothing.’”

“Black lives matter!” someone hollers.

“We could be friends.”

“That’s the stupidest thing.” I’ve never had a friend like Sarah. A white girl. I laugh, it’s so stupid. Die, and a white girl can be your friend.

“I’m not trying to be funny. Stay.”

She’s pleading. I feel sorry for her. My school doesn’t have any Sarahs.

Who knew THE END wasn’t the end?

I’m always good. (Teasing Kim doesn’t count.) I say what Grandma wants to hear. Calm her and Ma. Watch out for Kim. Play Minecraft for just an hour. (Okay, sometimes two.) Do my homework. Even act nice when Mr. Myers isn’t asking me (he’s asking the whole class!) to welcome the new kid. Sucker. That’s me. Why can’t I have some fun? Pretend I’m a rebel in Rogue One?

I read the first line: “All children, except one, grow up.”

I frown. “What happened? Did he die?”

“No.” Sarah’s face reddens. “He doesn’t die. He stays a kid. He wants to stay a kid.”

“What’re you going to be, Sarah?” I shout. “You’re the only one who’s going to grow up.”

“You’re the Chicago boy? Murdered like me?”

“1955. Down South.”

Everybody knew the South was dangerous then.”

“Still is,” answers Emmett.

“Maybe you shouldn’t know about it. At least for now. It’s terrible when grown men kill a child.”

“Like my dad?”

Strangely, courtroom benches remind me of church pews. Long, hard, polished wood.

“I was in fear for my life,” he says, more forcefully.

If I were alive, my whole body would be trembling. Officer Moore speaks (I think) a truth he believes. When truth’s a feeling, can it be both? Both true and untrue?

“An emergency nine-one-one call, a young man with a realistic-looking gun, a concern for public safety, and an officer’s fear for his life are all facts I’ve considered.

“In the opinion of this court, there is not enough evidence to charge Officer Moore with excessive force, manslaughter, or murder.”

Emmett’s the leader. The leader of our crew. An unnatural alliance—young, but dead.

Ghost boys.

I understand now. Everything isn’t all about me.

Scornful, Emmett boasts. “Life’s different in Chicago. I talk with white people all the time.”

“No, you don’t,” scolds Simeon.

“I do. I’ll show you.” He heads toward the store.

“Don’t,” says Simeon.

“Think I’m scared?”

Emmett murmurs, “Bear witness.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Everyone needs their story heard. Felt. We honor each other. Connect across time.”

“I was ashamed.”

“Never be. You’re a good son. Everyone gets scared sometimes. It’s how you handle it that matters.”

“Can’t undo wrong. Can only do our best to make things right.”

Emmett told me that the men who killed him never believed they did wrong. An all-white jury found them innocent.

The judge said there wasn’t enough evidence to charge Officer Moore with a crime. But he’s not celebrating.

Is that progress?

Bear witness. My tale is told.

Wake. Only the living can make the world better.

Live and make it better.