The Boy Who Stopped Being a Ghost

Recite it! Recite it again! Noah never gets it wrong!

My dad stood behind me with a ruler in his hand, forcing me to wear the washed-out old sneakers my brother had worn before he died and stand in front of the memorial photo in the living room, reciting high school classical texts and formulas over and over again.

After my brother Noah drowned that summer, my dad went insane.

He made a chilling rule: on odd-numbered days, I was my dead brother Noah, and on even-numbered days, I was the living Ethan.

When I played myself, I could only eat boiled vegetables, because Noah was a sinner and did not deserve meat.

I endured it for three years, until he smashed the art supplies I had secretly saved money to buy, saying Ethan had not grown up yet and no one was allowed to draw.

I finally could not take it anymore and smashed Ethans favorite thing.

When my dad forced me to put on those old sneakers, it was already eleven at night.

Today was the second, an even-numbered day.

I was Ethan.

Ethan had good grades, and Ethan had a pair of black basketball shoes.

But Ethan was only sixteen when he died.

I was seventeen this year.

Those size nine shoes did not fit me at all.

Put them on, my dad said, sitting on the couch with a belt clenched in his hand, his eyes fixed straight on me.

I gritted my teeth, curled my toes, and forced my foot inside.

The back of the shoe caught on my ankle and scraped the skin raw.

You didnt put it on right, do it again.

The belt lashed across my calf, leaving a red mark.

I did not dodge.

I pulled my foot back out, took a deep breath, and shoved it in again.

This time, the bones in my toes made a faint crack, and the shoe finally went on.

It hurt.

It hurt like hell.

Recite. My dad slapped a high school literature textbook onto the coffee table.

When Ethan was alive, he ranked first in his grade and could recite old texts backward.

But I had only finished middle school.

I sat in front of the coffee table, staring at the dense lines of archaic writing, and my mind went blank.

What are you standing there for? Recite. My dads voice was as cold as ice.

I picked up the book and read a few lines at random.

Smack!

The belt struck my back.

Wrong! All wrong! Ethan would never recite this text wrong!

I gripped the book so hard my knuckles turned white.

Every time I got a line wrong, he pinched me.

My arms were covered in bruises.

I gritted my teeth and read without making a sound.

Three years.

For every even-numbered day in the past three years, I had to recite books in this living room.

Sometimes for one hour, sometimes for two.

Only when my dad got tired of watching and went to sleep could I stop.

Tonight, he was in good spirits.

He watched me recite for a full hour.

Just as I was about to collapse, he suddenly stood up.

He walked toward my desk.

My heart sank hard.

Inside the desk drawer were the art supplies I had secretly saved money to buy.

On odd-numbered days, I was Noah.

Noah liked to draw.

But my dad would not let me draw.

He said Ethan had not grown up yet, and Ethan had not learned to draw yet, so what right did Noah have to draw?

He pulled open the drawer.

Dad! I stopped reciting, ignored the pain in my arms, and lunged over.

Too late.

He took out the set of paints.

What is this? he asked, turning his head to look at me coldly.

Dad, thats my...

I asked you, what is this?! He suddenly raised his voice, sharp enough to pierce my ears.

Paint.

Who let you buy it?

I saved the money myself...

Ethan doesnt draw! he screamed hysterically, slamming the box of paints onto the floor.

The plastic case shattered.

Bright colors splashed out and stained the floor.

Still not satisfied, he picked up my sketchbook and tore it in half with a ripping sound.

It was a sketchbook I had filled halfway.

Inside were skies, birds in flight, and a world without Ethan and without a crazy father.

Now, everything was destroyed.

He threw the torn pieces of paper into my face.

I said Ethan hasnt grown up yet, and no one is allowed to draw!

The edge of a scrap of paper cut across my cheek, and it hurt a little.

I looked at the mess all over the floor, at the bright colors and the shredded paper.

Something inside me suddenly snapped.

I did not cry.

I turned around and walked toward the TV cabinet.

On the TV cabinet sat a silver music box.

My dad had bought it for Ethan on his fifteenth birthday.

Ethan loved that music box more than anything.

My dad wiped it every day and would not allow even a speck of dust on it.

I walked over and picked up the music box.

My dad froze.

What are you doing? His voice trembled a little.

Ethan doesnt draw, I said, looking at him, each word clear and slow, and Ethan doesnt listen to music boxes anymore either.

I lifted the music box and smashed it hard onto the floor.

Bang!

The metal shell warped out of shape.

The little figure inside popped out, the spring snapped, and a harsh metal scraping sound rang out.

The living room went deathly silent.

My dad stared blankly at the pieces on the floor.

His face was as white as paper.

I thought he would hit me.

I thought he would whip me half to death with the belt.

I was already prepared to take the beating.

But he did not.

He slowly squatted down and picked up the little figure with the broken leg.

His hands were shaking badly.

Dad. I gasped for breath and shouted the words I had held back for three years. Ethan is dead! He died three years ago! He drowned in the reservoir! If you hadnt been busy drinking back then and had watched him properly, how would he have fallen in?!

His whole body shook.

The broken half of the little figure fell from his hand.

He raised his head and looked at me.

His eyes were filled with fear, despair, and disbelief.

He opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

I looked at him coldly.

I was the one who found him by the reservoir.

I was the one who pulled him out.

His body was swollen from the water and cold as ice.

It wasnt my fault.

It was never my fault.

You were the one who killed him.

I took off the old sneakers and threw them beside his feet.

I dont want to be Ethan anymore.

I turned around, walked back to my room, and locked the door.

That night, there was not a single sound in the living room.

No crying, no cursing, nothing.

The next morning, I opened my bedroom door.

The living room had been cleaned spotless.

The traces of paint were gone, the scraps of paper were gone, and the broken pieces of the music box were gone too.

The old sneakers were placed neatly on the shoe rack.

My dad was not in the living room.

I walked to the TV cabinet.

On the wall, where Ethans photo had originally hung, there was now a sheet of white paper.

On the paper, someone had drawn a huge tally mark with a black marker.

Beside it was a line of words.

The handwriting was neat, pressed so hard it nearly cut through the paper.

Noah, from today on, you are Ethan every day.

The words on the wall were like a curse.

I stared at that line for a while, then tore the paper down, crumpled it into a ball, and threw it in the trash.

I put on my school uniform, shouldered my backpack, and left.

I did not eat breakfast.

The pot was empty, and my dad was not home.

I did not know where he had gone, and I did not want to know.

When I got to school, the first class was math.

I sat in the last row.

The seat beside me was empty.

No one wanted to sit with me.

Because I was sick.

Ethan had asthma.

My dad had a rule that when I played Ethan, I had to take medicine on schedule.

To keep him from noticing anything wrong, I put vitamin tablets into an asthma medicine bottle and brought them to school to take.

I also had to pretend to cough and pretend I could not breathe.

Over time, the whole class knew Noah had a straight-A brother who had died, and that Noah himself was mentally unstable.

Split personality.

That was the nickname they used for me behind my back.

During break exercises, I stayed in the classroom instead of going.

Because Ethan could not do intense exercise.

A few boys walked in from outside, talking and laughing.

When they saw me, their laughter paused, then they deliberately lowered their voices, but still spoke loudly enough for me to hear.

Look, that split-personality freak is pretending to be dead again.

I heard his dad is crazy too and picks through trash on the street every day.

So disgusting, he was taking pills earlier, and who knows what he was actually taking.

I lowered my head, looked at the words in my textbook, and pretended I had not heard.

Suddenly, a hand slapped down on my desk.

I looked up.

It was Ryan.

Ryan was the class president, with good grades, a clean look, and a lot of friends.

He looked at those boys and frowned.

What are you saying? You dont have to go do exercises anymore, huh?

The boys curled their lips and scattered.

Ryan pulled out the chair beside me and sat down.

Are you okay? he asked.

Im fine. My voice was cold.

You didnt take your medicine today. He stared at the inside of my desk.

My heart tightened.

I forgot to bring it.

Dont you have asthma? You can forget your medicine? He looked into my eyes, as if trying to see through something.

Its not serious. I turned my head toward the window.

Ryan did not press further.

He took a piece of White Rabbit candy from his pocket and put it on my desk.

For you.

I looked at the candy.

Ethan liked White Rabbit candy.

Noah did not like it, because Noah thought it was too sweet, sweet enough to make him sick.

I dont eat candy. I pushed the candy back.

Ryan froze for a moment.

Didnt you used to love it?

I did not speak.

Before was before, and now was now.

Last night, I smashed the music box, and I took off the sneakers.

I did not want to pretend anymore.

Ryan sighed and took the candy back.

Noah. He suddenly called my name.

I turned my head.

Actually, I know, he said, lowering his voice. You dont have asthma at all, right?

My hands clenched hard.

Ive seen you switch the medicine bottle, he said. You dumped out the white pills and put yellow vitamins inside.

I stared at him, my heart beating fast.

What exactly do you want? I asked.

I dont want anything. He looked at me. I just think youre living too painfully.

I dont need you to care.

I stood up and walked out of the classroom.

In the afternoon, we had gym class.

The test was an eight-hundred-meter run.

I stood beside the track and watched the others warm up.

The gym teacher blew his whistle.

Noah, are you running today?

The whole classs eyes landed on me.

In the past, I always used a medical note to get out of it.

But today, I did not have a medical note.

My dad had not prepared one for me last night.

Im running, I said.

Whispers spread through the crowd.

Doesnt he have asthma?

He was probably faking it, I think hes usually full of energy.

Split personality, I guess, maybe another personality came out today.

I ignored them and walked to the starting line.

Ryan stood beside me and glanced at me.

Can you do it?

I can.

The whistle blew, and I shot forward.

I ran fast.

The wind roared past my ears.

I wanted to run all the tightness out of my chest.

I wanted to prove I was a healthy person, that I was not Ethan, that I did not have asthma.

On the first lap, I was in the lead.

On the second lap, my breathing grew ragged.

I was not pretending, I was truly tired.

It had been too long since I had done intense exercise.

My lungs felt like they were burning, and there was a metallic taste in my throat.

The footsteps behind me came closer and closer.

Ryan passed me.

The other boys also passed me one after another.

I gritted my teeth and stared hard at the track ahead.

I could not stop.

If I stopped, I was Ethan.

If I kept running, I was Noah.

The final lap.

My legs felt as heavy as lead.

My vision started to darken.

I heard someone shouting my name.

Noah! Keep going!

It was Ryan.

I used every last bit of strength I had and rushed across the finish line.

Then my legs went weak, and I dropped to my knees on the rubber track.

I gasped for air in huge mouthfuls, and sweat blurred my eyes.

Someone handed me a bottle of water.

I looked up, and it was Ryan.

Drink some water.

I took the bottle, twisted off the cap, and gulped down a big mouthful.

Youre pretty fast, he said with a smile.

I tugged at the corner of my mouth too.

Just then, a harsh voice rang out.

Well, look at that, the asthma patient finished eight hundred meters? Still alive, huh?

It was Tyler.

He was the boy in class who loved causing trouble the most.

He walked over with a few other boys and looked down at me from above.

Noah, your acting isnt good enough.

Yesterday you were coughing like you were dying, and today you can run eight hundred meters?

Is that disease of yours intermittent or something?

The people around us burst into laughter.

I tightened my grip on the water bottle in my hand.

What the hell does it have to do with you? I said coldly.

Youve got quite the temper. Tyler took a step closer. I heard your dad is crazy, so did you inherit it too?

My mind buzzed.

I shot to my feet and smashed the water bottle straight into his face.

Water splashed all over him.

Tyler froze.

The whole field went silent.

You fucking dare hit me? Tyler snapped back to himself and shoved me hard.

I had no strength to begin with, and when he shoved me, I fell straight to the ground.

My palm scraped open, and blood seeped out.

Tyler! What are you doing! Ryan stepped in front of me.

Class president, stay out of it. Tyler pointed at me. This psycho started it!

You insulted him first! Ryan did not back down.

The gym teacher ran over.

What are you doing, what are you doing! Starting a riot?

Tyler and I were both called to the discipline office.

The dean was a balding middle-aged man.

He slapped the desk, spit flying everywhere.

Fighting! You actually dared to fight! Noah, you already fake being sick all the time, and now you dare hit a classmate?

I lowered my head, looked at the blood on my palm, and said nothing.

And Tyler, you too! Why are you picking on another boy?

Tyler rolled his eyes.

Call your parents! the dean gave the final order. Bring both of your parents in tomorrow!

My heart sank hard.

Call my parent.

My dad.

If my dad came, the whole school would know what kind of person he was.

The whole school would see his madness.

I raised my head and looked at the dean.

Sir, my dad is sick, he cant come.

Sick? What kind of sickness?

Mental illness.

The office suddenly went quiet.

The dean froze.

Tyler froze too.

I looked at their shocked expressions and suddenly found it a little funny.

Hes crazy, I said calmly. He cant come. If you want to expel me, then expel me.

After I said that, I turned and walked out of the office.

The deans furious roar came from behind me.

I ignored it.

I walked out of the school building, and the sunlight was so harsh I could barely open my eyes.

I did not want to go back to the classroom, and I did not want to go home.

I wandered aimlessly along the street.

When I passed a stationery store, I stopped.

In the display window sat a set of watercolor paints.

It was exactly the same as the set my dad had smashed last night.

I stood outside the window and looked at it for a long time.

Only after the sky went dark did I turn and walk home.

The hallway of our apartment building was always filled with a moldy smell.

The light had been broken for a long time, and no one had fixed it.

I climbed up to the third floor in the dark.

Just as I reached the turn on the third floor, I heard an argument coming from upstairs.

Are you sick or something?! Why are you knocking on doors in the middle of the night?!

It was a mans voice.

It was unfamiliar.

My heart tightened, and I quickened my steps up to the fourth floor.

The door on the left side of the fourth floor was open.

A man wearing a tank top, his arms covered in tattoos, stood in the doorway with a baseball bat in his hand and anger all over his face.

My dad stood opposite him.

He was holding a stack of old newspapers.

His hair was messy, and his eyes were empty.

Where is Mr. Walker? my dad murmured. I brought newspapers for Mr. Walker. Ethan said Mr. Walker likes listening to him read the paper.

What Mr. Walker! My last name is Miller! I moved in a month ago! If you dare knock on my door again, Ill break your legs! The man waved the baseball bat in his hand.

I rushed over and pulled my dad behind me.

Im sorry, Im sorry, I apologized over and over. My dad isnt right in the head, and he got the wrong door. Please dont take it personally.

The man looked me over and snorted coldly.

If hes crazy, lock him up at home! Why let him out to scare people!

After saying that, he slammed the door shut.

The hallway returned to dead silence.

I turned my head and looked at my dad.

He was still holding that stack of newspapers, staring blankly at the closed security door.

Dad. I tugged at his sleeve. Lets go home.

Where is Mr. Walker? He turned his head and looked at me. Where did Mr. Walker go?

Mr. Walkers son took him away a year ago. This apartment was sold.

Impossible. He shook his head. Ethan said yesterday that he was going to read the newspaper to Mr. Walker. Ethan never lies.

My anger flared up all at once.

Ethan is dead! I yelled at him. Hes been dead for three years! He cant read the paper anymore! Cant you wake up for once!

I snatched the newspapers from his arms and threw them hard onto the floor.

The newspapers scattered everywhere.

The dates printed on them were from three years ago.

My dad froze.

He looked at the newspapers on the floor and slowly squatted down.

He started picking them up one by one.

The hallway was very dark, and I could not see his expression clearly.

But I could hear his muffled sobs.

Ethan isnt dead, he said while picking them up. Ethan is right here. Hes just being disobedient and hiding.

I looked at his hunched back, and my throat tightened.

I hated him.

I hated him for forcing me to pretend to be Ethan, hated him for smashing my paints, and hated him for turning me into a joke at school.

But I also pitied him.

He was trapped in that summer three years ago and could never walk out.

I squatted down and helped him pick up the newspapers.

Dad, lets go home. My voice softened.

He did not speak, only hugged the newspapers tightly.