Chapter Two
Still Friends

Rob woke to a loud pounding on the door. He cringed and quickly sat up, feeling quite sure that his father would be coming, absolutely furious at him for something again.

He then blinked in confusion at the small unfamiliar room around him, with its plain white walls and unfamiliar furniture. Swiftly, he recalled the events from the past day. He was still in the foster home that he had gone into the night before.

Rob sighed a tiny bit in relief. At least he was away from his house.

A little bit later, the door was pounded on again. "This is your final wake-up call!" some male grown-up shouted. "Anyone who is not downstairs in the mess hall within thirty minutes misses breakfast, and that's final!"

Rob wondered who the person was, then decided that it did not matter. He turned his head toward the other dresser in the room, where his roommate was awake and currently yanking a comb through his tan hair.

The boy turned around and narrowed his eyes. "I've only got one thing to say to you," he spat, scowling. "You stay outta my way, and I stay outta yours. Got it?"

Rob nodded slowly, a bit uncomfortable at the boy's upfront attitude. "Yeah."

The pale brunette frowned. "And I mean don't talk to me, either!"

He slammed the comb down on his dresser and marched out of the room, banging the door shut. Rob stared at it for a bit. He supposed that at least it seemed that his roommate was not one that would forever be insulting him or asking him why he was here.

Rob then quickly dressed and left the room. He followed some chattering boys down the hallway and down some stairs, eventually ending up in a large room with people from what looked like elementary grades to even high school sitting on mismatched chairs, in front of long tables. It was sort of like a school cafeteria, except not quite as large.

The other boys went into what looked somewhat like a lunch line; Rob followed them and came out with grapes, biscuits and gravy, and sausages on a tray, as well as a small carton of orange juice. He went toward a partially empty table near the back of the room and sat down.

He had just finished the rest of his juice when he saw someone sit in the empty seat next to him.

"Hey, new kid!" the kid spoke to him.

Rob ignored the familiar phrase and continued eating his second biscuit.

"Yo! You deaf?" the low voice went on mockingly.

Rob frowned a tiny bit; it was no different than many of the new schools that he had gone to, ones on military bases included. Hopefully the rude boy would give up.

"Sheesh! Can't you just give a friendly 'hi' or something?" the boy demanded.

Rob then jolted as strong hands gave him a hardy shove. He winced more at the touch more than the short fall to the floor; he had almost felt his "father" again . . .

"What's going on here?" an angered voice demanded from nearby.

Rob looked up to see a tall, thin grown-up with a nasty scowl on his face. "Nothing, sir," he muttered, climbing back to his seat, feeling rather embarrassed.

Thankfully, the grown-up just turned around to the tall boy that had shoved him.

"Jerkins!" he shouted, while the boy merely raised an eyebrow. "Another demerit for you! That means no court, no television, no nothing tonight! Straight to your dorm, and no questions asked!"

The boy just shrugged and sat down in the middle of the table, clearly not bothered by the punishment.

Meanwhile, the grown-up had turned to Rob. "Branson, isn't it?" he asked. Rob nodded mutely. The person continued. "If I catch you in a middle of another spout of any sort like that again, you're also starting your own demerit record. Is that clear?"

Rob nodded again, a bit apprehensive. "Yes, sir," he responded.

The grown-up raised an eyebrow. "Well, at least we got a polite one this time, huh?" Without further ado, he marched to stand watch from a wall with a couple of other men.

"Jeepers, Jerky!" someone said loudly from somewhat nearby. "You don't know when to quit, do you?

Rob turned to see the tall boy scowling at some other person with bright red hair. "If you call me that again, you're gonna get another knock on the head," he warned. "And hard."

The red-head grinned mischievously. "But is it really worth another demerit?" he asked brazenly. "If I were you, you'd better stop before you're slam-dunked into another center. I heard they only get worse the more you get moved around them. Isn't that right?"

The taller boy must have given the red-head a hard pinch, for he suddenly uttered a small yelp and jerked his right arm away. Scowling, he grabbed his empty tray and strode from the table.

Some loud laughter followed his departure. The boy next to him spoke up.

"Hey, Jerkins," he said, chuckling. "I guess you've got yourself another rematch. So, how're you going get away with it this time?"

Jerkins rolled his eyes. "That's really easy, and I'm not telling why," he stated. "It's only old Fire-Head that's the real problem, and I got that under control. Once he's in his office," he added, smiling slyly.

Another boy raised an eyebrow. "Wow, way to bypass security- go right under their noses. You going to ransack some room near it again?"

Someone else snickered. "More like make some pleasant talk with him. You know he's a sucker for that sort of thing, nice as he is."

"Hey, leave him out of it, why don't you?" a boy with black hair spoke up. "He's the only actual grown-up around here, anyway."

"Who asked you?" Jerkins spat, glaring at the speaker.

The boy only shrugged and stashed a forkful of gravy-covered biscuit in his mouth. Rob sighed; why in the world did he have to be housed in the same building with a boy that was an obvious trouble maker?

He then winced. It was definitely better here than at "home."

Rob quickly finished his breakfast, then went to an open window in the wall where he had seen others take their trays. Several trays were messily stacked there; he swiftly set his tray down next to them and tried to rearrange them so it seemed that they would not topple over. Inside the room beyond the window, he could see a small run-through dishwasher going, with a male worker busily rinsing dishes with a sprayer attached to a long cord. Another worker was putting a steaming full tray rack onto a large table.

The former worker finished spraying and shoved the rack into the dishwasher before turning around to grab another stack of trays from the window. His eyes widened as he spotted Rob.

"Oy, you!" he shouted angrily. "Don't touch them, already. I don't need any more messes than I've already got!"

Rob tried to explain. "I was just trying to get them so they wouldn't fall-"

The worker was not appeased. "I don't need yours or any other kid's help with it," he growled, snatching the whole stack away from the window. Several trays fell off the top of the pile and clattered onto the silver metal counter. He then grabbed Rob's tray next.

"Shoo!" he snapped, waving the tray.

Rob backed up and turned around, nearly bumping into someone behind him. Muttering an apology to a small blonde boy that only snickered in reply, he hastily went up the stairs toward his dorm room again. Rob tried not to groan as he passed some bickering boys in the hallway. What sort of place was he in, that so many people seemed to be in a perpetual foul mood?

He then remembered Mr. Willowby that he had met yesterday, as well as the kid from the cafeteria that had stood up for the friendly older man. Apparently not everyone here was the same.

He wondered at not being given a key as he turned the knob to his dorm room and stepped inside. Thankfully, his bad-tempered roommate- though admittedly a whole lot better than the trouble maker boy from breakfast- was currently somewhere else.

Rob quietly closed the door, and went to his bed. On it, there was a note. He curiously picked it up.

Branson- You're due for a check-up at ten am on the dot, room 203. If you don't know where that is, ask the person in the room just right of the dining hall. There's always something stationed in there. Things will go on from there. Someone will come to remind you a bit later on, including bringing you a lock for your locker.

Rob shrugged and put down the note. At least it was not anything serious, he supposed.

He looked around the small room. Near his bed was a row of small blue metal lockers. Maybe there had even been more than two people in here at one point. The one on the far left apparently was the one that had been claimed by his roommate, as a lock was dangling from it.

On the opposite wall, covered with a plastic sheet, was list of general rules for the home. Perhaps at least one occupant of the room had thought them rather idiotic (or maybe they had been bored) as the sheet was partially covered with pen and marker scribbles.

The rules themselves were still visible enough to read, though. Apparently everything that went against them, from being late to appointments, to surprisingly dirty fingernails (who would really care about that?) resulted in a varying amount of demerits. The more demerits acquired, the more privileges were taken away. Three hundred meant an expulsion away from the home.

Rob winced. He wondered how many hapless kids had been forced away due to accidently being in any sort of brawl, such as he had been with the rude boy from the cafeteria.

Rob checked his watch, seeing that it was seven-oh-two. There was a roaring sound of a lawn mower outside the window. Ignoring it like he always did with the city sounds in Brooklyn, he went to his backpack and pulled out the book he had been reading last night. He sure hoped that he would be able to stay here and not be forced to go somewhere else, unprecedented brawls or otherwise.

"And so that concludes the more finite rules for this center," a grown-up finished.

Rob nodded at the bored-looking man- Mr. Jack according to his nametag- sitting on a chair in yet another small room. The man picked up yet another clipboard, and scanned something. He then put it down and spoke up again.

"Well, it looks like you're all set to go for school next week," he said.

Rob frowned. "School?" he repeated.

Mr. Jack nodded. "Yes, school," he stated, over emphasizing the last word. "Unlike some other centers, we don't offer any educational services within our walls; we're much too small for that. Also, unfortunately, the policy of this center states that new residents must stay here at least a full week before attendance, to get used to being in another place, yada yada yada . . . And you will be tested after a few days for where you are grade-wise. It would certainly not be wise to assume that someone is on the grade level of others the same age- or the age they give, anyway.

He sat up straighter and continued to drone on. "So, your medical check-up states that you seem healthy enough, though to keep you from any roommates that have a known fighting record. That was already taken care of by dear Mr. Willowby in the first place, just after you came here yesterday, and so that's thankfully already settled."

Rob could not help but flinch a little at the "fighting record" part. The doctor that had examined him had been a bit surprised at all of the bruises, new and old, that he had found, but did not question him more than once where they had come from. At least he now knew that his roommate was not– at least publically, anyway- known to be violent.

Mr. Jack sighed. "Well, then, Mr. Branson," he said. "You're free to go now. There are several recreational areas within the building, including a television and a game room- no electronics; they break too easily in places like these- as well as a small basketball court and playground outside the main back doors. There are also more games and also a small library right across the hall from this room, if you would prefer something closer."

Rob nodded. "Thank you, sir."

The grown-up scuffed. "Polite, huh?" he asked. "That's a plus, I suppose."

Rob frowned a bit. The man that had practically shouted at him at breakfast had also been surprised at his manners. Apparently it was sort of a rare thing here, and not really expected.

He had stood up from his chair, when the man spoke up again.

"I should also remind you that lunch will be served at twelve-thirty for the residents here in the mess hall and no later," he said in his slightly monotonous voice. "Also, all of the exits are secure and no one will be allowed to leave without explicit permission."

Rob nodded again. "Yes, sir," he said.

He left the small room and went across the hall. He wondered if there was any sort of computer lab in the center, though he supposed that it would be not surprising to find out that there was not. Hopefully he would be able to type on a computer at least during the lunch time at which ever school that he would be going to. He had purposely brought several floppy disks with him.

All of his things in his backpack had been checked, and also surprisingly, his skateboard. Fortunately, he had been allowed to keep all of them, the disks included. No one had even checked what was on the disks. He had been careful to remove his name from all of his writings on the disks he had brought before leaving Brooklyn, though.

Rob reached the door to the recreation room and opened it. Inside was a small room with several shelves full of various games and game pieces on one wall, a small pile of magazines on an end table, as well as more shelves of books along two other walls.

There were not very many people in the room. A few young kids were playing a board game on the floor near a table, while an older boy was lying on a couch on the other side of the room, reading what looked like a science magazine that he held above his head. Yet another bored-looking man was stationed at a desk near the doorway. He looked up as Rob went into the room, then went right back to reading a thick book.

Rob went toward the bookshelves, interested. At least most of them seemed to be in good condition. Only a few had any sort of peeling covers at all. It was almost like the shelves from a public library, in a way, if not for the lesser amount of shelves and the somewhat odd-looking collection, with most of the hardcovers bare of any jackets.

He scanned the titles, noting that they were not in any sort of particular order. Adventure novels were mixed with non-fiction books from all across the Dewey Decimal system.

Picking out a science fiction book that seemed interesting, he went to an empty table and began to read.

Rob was reading one of his own books in his dorm room again, when some letters floated above the pages.

Rob, are you free to talk now?

-Jamal

He flinched in slight panic as he checked his watch. Four twenty-seven. It would definitely be after school in Brooklyn, just like he had assumed it was for here earlier when he had suddenly heard many pairs of footsteps and slamming doors nearby.

Sighing a bit, he put down the book on the bed, and went toward his locker. He twirled the dial on the lock he had received earlier. After pulling out his backpack, he closed the metal door, reattached the lock and put the pack on his bed. He then pulled out the same small notebook that he had used yesterday when writing to Jamal.

Rob glanced at his roommate before sitting down near his bag. One of the grown-ups that he had seen earlier had told him that the boy's name was Dustin Kiona. Rob wondered if that was his actual name, or if he was using an alias, like he was.

The tan-haired boy was keeping his resolution of staying out of Rob's way; he had not spoken another word and just plainly ignored him as he lay on his bed, playing a small portable water game that he kept on tilting different directions.

Rob opened his notebook. After uncapping his pen, he wrote an answer to the question still hanging in mid-air.

Yes, he responded.

The floating message quickly faded, after which Ghostwriter appeared and circled his answer, then flew through the window. Less than half a minute later, the ghost reappeared, creating another message from Jamal.

Good. The whole team's here at my place. We're here for you.

Rob winced a bit. No doubt the team would want to know why he had run away. There was no way that he could tell them. Jamal would have already informed them about their conversation last night, and they would definitely try to get him to give at least give another clue. Maybe he should have been more careful and not even mentioned anything about any sort of antagonism toward his parents in the first place. It was a "bit" too late for that, though.

He sighed. Thanks, he wrote.

He was really grateful that his friends still wanted anything to do with him, including Ghostwriter. It would have been ten times worse without all of them. He then winced again. There was also Jason, his first friend, all the way in Washington, D.C. and quite possibly clueless that he was not at home . . .

Rob waited a few minutes after Ghostwriter had disappeared through the window again. Perhaps the team was debating what to write to him, with Jamal even trying to calm Gaby or someone else down.

Thankfully, another answer soon came, again from Jamal.

What can we do to help with the problem between you and your parents?

Rob noted with surprise that the ghost had even copied the dark-skinned boy's handwriting this time. He had not known that Ghostwriter could do that.

He then sighed again, feeling rather depressed. What could the team do to stop his parents from being . . . well, the way they were now?

Nothing, he responded.

Rob frowned at the answer even after he wrote it. Surely the team would argue about that.

Sure enough, another message soon came, this time from Alex. Maybe he had even grabbed the pen from his impulsive younger sister Gaby. Then he thought that that was perhaps a silly idea, since the whole Ghostwriter team all had their own pens in the first place.

Oh, come on. You know us better than that, the Latino boy complained.

Ghostwriter rearranged some more letters in his notebook, this time shifting to Gaby's handwriting.

We can't help you if you don't tell us! WHY DID YOU RUN AWAY?

Rob had to curb his angered emotions again. The irritation then quickly faded to despondence. These were his friends, including Ghostwriter . . .

Sorry, I can't tell.

Why?

Rob frowned, even as more unbidden tears sprung into his eyes. He hastily wiped them away before responded.

It won't help.

We can try, Jamal responded. Please, Rob. Come on. We're your friends.

The next message came from Lenni. We can talk to your parents and see what they know about any problem. Maybe they want to make up with you now.

Rob flinched as he read that. There was no way that would work . . . and if he went back, things would be exactly the same as they were before.

Please, Tina wrote. We want to help.

I don't want to tell, he wrote.

Another message soon came, this time from Alex. Did your dad take away your skateboard?

Rob rolled his eyes at the rather stupid question. Ought not the Latino boy know that it would take more than his just his skateboard to cause him to run away?

No, I have it, he scrawled.

Lenni wrote another message. How are you doing in the foster home? Are you actually inside it?

Rob nodded, even though he knew that his friends could not see him. Yeah, I'm in it and I'm fine.

He glanced over to his roommate, still thankfully engrossed with his water game, before turning back to the notebook.

Another question soon came from Tina. Is the problem actually with your parents, or maybe someone they know, or someone else?

Rob flinched as he responded. I don't want to say.

He knew that they team- several of them, at least anyway- would be really frustrated at that answer. Maybe Tina and Jamal would be at least somewhat calm; he was not sure about Lenni.

Gaby asked another question. Don't you trust us?

Rob winced. It's not that.

Then WHAT IS IT?

Jamal wrote next. Look, we're a team. We can work this out together.

Rob sighed. There was no way that the team could help put with this one, right?

I don't want to tell.

He then blanched some. What if the team somehow did figure out the problem? What would they try, and also, would it get them into some sort of trouble?

Why? Alex responded.

I just don't.

It was a few minutes later before another message came. Are you going by a different name in the foster home? Jamal asked.

Rob flinched. Maybe his friends had asked Ghostwriter to look for his records at the center. Though feeling a little guilty at the deception, he was glad that he was currently using an alias.

I'm not saying, he wrote.

Obviously you are, if you're saying that, Alex responded.

Rob winced at his mistake. Perhaps if he had not given that hint, his friends might have thought that his records had not been created yet due to him being new.

Lenni was the next to write. Please, Rob, we want to help.

I'm fine where I am.

Rob sighed again, rereading what he had written. It was true, right? His parents were not in the center, and therefore, things were a whole lot better than when he was at his house, random bad-tempered people included.

Obviously, the team did not agree. But that's not here, Gaby pointed out. We can help you more if you're here. And we want you here. We want you to be with us!

Rob sighed again. Here the team was, wanting to help . . . but he really just was too . . . scared to give any decent answer.

I'm sorry, he wrote, wiping his stupid wet eyes again.

For what? Tina asked.

Just sorry, he replied.

Gaby seemed hopeful. Are you sorry for leaving? Are you coming back?

No.

Please, please, please! We want you to come back! That was Gaby again.

Sorry, Rob wrote again. He really was. He just did not want to be back with his parents, and there was utterly no way that he could hide out in any his friends' homes for long term without being discovered.

Another question came from Alex a few minutes later. Were you riding on buses all day to get wherever you are?

Or trains? Gaby asked.

That was yesterday when you did that, right? Tina asked. Since the others that go to Hurston said you weren't at school?

Rob sighed slightly in relief. At least his friends had not discovered where the foster home was yet. Maybe they had even tried to look up the foster home, but could not find it in any local phone book or atlas. Maybe it was not large or well-known enough for any sort of thing they had attempted to look in.

Yes, he responded.

So which was it? Gaby asked impatiently. Buses or trains?

Both, Rob replied. He had ridden on a bus to the train station, then after a long time on different trains, a bus to the library where he had gotten his library card.

Did you have a lot of money saved up? Gaby asked.

Yes.

Obviously, Alex thought him extremely stupid. You used it all for that?

Rob frowned. Maybe it was rash, but he, well, was not at "home" now, at least.

Can you call on a phone sometime? Lenni asked.

Rob nearly rolled his eyes. Why? he scrawled.

He then gasped. Were they really trying to get someone- like Jamal's father, or even someone like Lieutenant McQuade, who had the ability to trace the source of the phone call- to talk to him on the phone?

He was probably being paranoid, though. There was no way that his friends would do that so of thing to him, right? He supposed that he was correct as he read Gaby's next response.

We want to hear you, the Latino girl wrote.

Do you have to pay to call? Tina asked.

Rob wrote an answer. I'm allowed one local phone call per day and one non-local call per week, and no, I don't have to pay for either. Also, there is always a security guard near the phone when someone uses it. They listen to what's being said.

He could practically see Alex frowning as he read the Latino boy's message. They must really not trust anyone in that foster home, he wrote.

Rob shrugged. I guess.

A few minutes later, Jamal sent another note. Rob, we've got to go for now. We'll keep in touch, right?

Rob nodded, a bit sad, but also somewhat relieved (sort of) that he would not be interrogated anymore by his friends right now.

Yeah, he replied.

Write if you need anything, even if you want to make a phone call, Lenni wrote back.

We really want to help you, Gaby stated.

Tina wrote next. We're still a team.

Rob nodded again, saddened. Thanks, he replied.

We'll try to meet again tomorrow, Jamal wrote.

Okay.

Bye, but ONLY for now, Gaby wrote. Don't stop writing to us.

I won't.

Rob waited for a few more minutes, but no more messages came.

He then had a thought. Ghostwriter, do you get tired with sending so many messages long distance?

Familiar colored sparks instantly flew around his message. They then sailed in an arc above him, spiraled in several quick loops nearby, and rapidly circled around the perimeter of the room. The ghost then came to a hovering stop beside him. Rob was comforted by the ghost's presence, like he had been during so many fearful nights of pain . . .

Ghostwriter then zoomed into his book on the bed. Several letters came flying out to create a message. I'm fine. It doesn't tire me at all.

Really? Rob asked hopefully.

Yes, Ghostwriter responded. You don't have to worry about me.

Rob smiled some. That's a relief.

I am worried about you, though.

He then frowned. You know what I was feeling back in Brooklyn, though, he responded. In my house.

Ghostwriter had indeed known that it was inside his house- and mostly after school- where he had been feeling the worst . . . He had told him that he had even figured out what each of the team member's house address was. Rob had been a bit shocked when the ghost had spelled out his address in front of him one night, asking him if it was his home.

I remember, Ghostwriter answered. The letters then flew out sort of slowly and then shrunk a bit, showing that the ghost was quite disheartened. So much fear. So much pain.

Rob nodded. That's why I left, he wrote.

But where did the fear and pain come from? Ghostwriter asked. From what? The letters were now pulsing slightly with concern.

Rob frowned, saddened again. Ghostwriter had asked him that question many times before. If he told Ghostwriter here and now, there was no way that he could tell him to not relay it to the team, and he still doubted that anyone would really believe him. Maybe even the team would not. He did not want to go back to his home . . . Did not; did not; did not . . .

I don't want to tell, he wrote, cringing a bit as his dumb eyes started to water a bit yet again. I'm sorry, Ghostwriter. I just don't want to. I'm too scared. Maybe I'm stupid for that, but I really just don't want to go back home.

You don't want to go back to the fear and pain, Ghostwriter answered understandingly.

Rob nodded. Yes.

He closed his eyes briefly as he remembered his parents as they used to be. He did not know how in the world they could ever be back to what they had been.

Why in the world had they had to change? Why?

Rob shifted his position to lying on his stomach and laid his head down on the notebook. Suddenly, he saw a soft glow from behind his eyelids. Rob opened his eyes and looked up. A single sentence hung in the air, outlined by a light blue hue that pulsed ever so slightly.

I am always your friend, Ghostwriter had written.

The words faded, and the ghost appeared again, then rapidly circled him. It was Ghostwriter's "hug", as he called it. Even though he physically felt nothing, it was as if he could feel the comfort through the ghost's emotions. The same sort of thing had calmed him and helped him several times through many hard nights.

Rob closed his notebook and moved it slightly to the left. He then laid his head down again on his bed, comforted by the hug, and that the ghost stayed hovering nearby him. He was so glad that Ghostwriter was his friend.