Won't Let Go Page 3

  “Get out. Get out.” The voice is a whisper, but harsh, like getting reprimanded by a librarian.

  I shake it off. It’s not really there.

  Looking out the window, the trees sway in the breeze. That’s what it is, just the sound of the trees.

  Only the voice comes at me again from over my shoulder. “Get out!” I spin and hear it again, and again it’s over my shoulder coming at me from behind.

  I don’t know why, but the first thing that comes to my mind and spills through my parted lips is, “No! You get out! Seriously, I will...douse you in bleach and light a match!”

  Then, as if the voice is standing right next to me, breathing cold air on my neck, in my ear I hear, “But they’re coming back.”

  Without the anger or the loudness, this voice, male, is no longer confident but unsure.

  Try and ignore it. But my gut is telling me to reply. “Who’s coming back?” My own voice is equally unsure, until I remember something important. “You’re—you’re not real.” You’re a figment of my imagination. Some delusional person I’ve made up to make myself feel something.

  “If I’m not real, how can you hear me?”

  I suck in a deep breath, filling my lungs with the cool air surrounding me, and let it out. “Because, you’re inside my head,” I try to rationalize.

  A tapping sound echoes through the room. It starts close, and then recedes slightly as it makes its way to the small desk in the corner of my room by the closet door. I’ve had the desk forever. It’s oak too, but is covered in scratches and scrapes, multicolored stickers and pen. It’s where I sit and do my homework, scan the web, or just waste time in general.

  As if attached to invisible strings, the photo album which I just spent numerous minutes organizing photos into opens. Each thick page flips over, at first one at a time, and then faster and faster until it looks like a fan of blurry faces and landscapes.

  “If I’m inside your head,” the voice says, “how can I do this?” The album slams shut with a thud.

  Tip-tap, tip-tap and the closet door creaks open and slams closed with bang!

  I stiffen. Point proven.

  But I’m not convinced.

  This is inconceivable. “If you’re real...then—then let me see you?”

  A gruff, throat clearing happens. The tip-tap starts up again until it stops, right in front of me. The chill of winter’s breeze is back. I stand motionless, waiting for something to happen and almost hoping for nothing instead.

  Before me, a swirl of color forms. Millions of tiny grains of every shade are concentrated in front of me. Sucking together, they begin to take shape. I can make out the blue of jeans, the grey of a shirt, until standing inches away from me is a teenaged guy.

  Gasping, I take a step back.

  If it’s possible, my eyes grow wider. My hand flies to my gaping mouth. Instead of holding in a scream, it covers the wide O. I hope it shields the look of utter disbelief on my face.

  I evaluate the situation in front of me as my eyes narrow. He’s gorgeous. Sandy blond hair falls effortlessly across his forehead, hangs in his face, but through the strands, his eyes glisten and gleam. They’re an azure blue, beautiful yet full of intrigue and mystery with the shadow of sadness.

  Suddenly, my feet take a step forward—when I should probably be moving away—and my hand stretches out, inching closer and closer until—

  “Honey, it’s time for lunch!” I glance over my shoulder towards the door and Mom’s voice. My focus is taken away from my room for just a second, the blink of an eye, but when I turn back the guy and the chill in the air are gone.

  “Wait!” I shout.

  But he’s disappeared. And after a few beats of my steady heart, he doesn’t reappear.

  I’m pretty sure my room is haunted by an angry yet sad, hot ghostboy. All I need to do is decide if I’m certifiably insane, or if the world isn’t at all like I thought.

  Honestly, I’m not sure which option I find more horrifying.

  Chapter Four

  I trudge down the stairs, through the living room and into the kitchen where the smell of grilled-cheese permeates the open concept space. Mom stands at the stove, flipper in hand, as cheese oozes from the golden brown toast and sizzles in the frying pan.

  It doesn’t feel like it’s been that long since my hearty bowl of Apple O's, but as I plunk down on a paisley patterned stool at the island, my stomach growls ferociously. Mom scoops up the sandwich and flips it onto a plate, then takes another buttered, cheese filled sandwich and flops it into the pan.

  “Smells good,” I say.

  She smiles at me. “We’ll have to go to the store again later, make a real go of it and stock this house properly.” She puts the plate down on the marble. Picking up a knife, she hacks into the sandwiches, slicing the oozing cheese bread on the diagonal, just the way I like it.

  I nod. The sandwich is hot. I juggle it between my fingertips, blowing on it and the burned pads of my skin. Quickly I rip off a chunk with my teeth and chew. The cheese scorches the delicate insides of my mouth. It’s funny how people are, how I am. I know the cheese is like hot lava waiting to spill into my open mouth and burn me, yet that doesn’t stop me from taking another bite.

  Mom, however, takes a finger and strategically pokes the side of the sandwich, testing the temperature. Carefully she takes the sandwich in her hands, still blowing cool wisps of air onto it before taking a bite.

  The first half of the sandwich has disappeared, but for some reason, the butter, the cheese and the perfectly browned bread isn’t exactly doing it for me. I know it’s supposed to be delicious, but I can’t seem to savor it as much as I should.

  As I glance up at the roof, knowing my room is just above, only a few inches of wood and supports separating us, the weight is back, heavy on my shoulders. I’m actually starting to believe there is a ghostboy living in my room. I mean I saw him, talked to him and tried to even touch him. That must mean he’s real, and I’m not crazy, right?

  Mom still nibbles away at her lunch, while I push my plate away. “Mom,” I say, “do you believe in ghosts?”

  She sets down what’s left of her sandwich, wipes her hands on her jeans, then swipes at her face. Her eyebrow quirks up. “Well...I’ve never thought much about it.”

  Elbows on the counter, I prop my head up in my hands. “Can you think about it? I’m curious.”

  As long as I’ve known my mom, she’s been the kind of person to need evidence. When it comes time to vote, she pours over the pamphlets, watches the debates, taking in as much information as she can. Unless she has some sort of concrete evidence, she’s hard pressed to make a decision. It’s as if she truly believes her one vote could change the course of the world. She’s the same about buying something as simple as a book. She reads the reviews, asks her friends and is desperate for confirmation that someone, other than the bookstore clerk—who’s willing to say anything just to make a sale—knows, one hundred percent, that it is in fact a book she could not possibly live without reading.

  When it comes to anything supernatural, I’m pretty sure I know what her stance is. So, it’s really not a surprise when she says, after thinking about it for a moment, “No, no I don’t think there are ghosts.”

  Even though her voice carried a small amount of finality—since she has no proof on the matter—I question it further, “Why not?”

  “I guess because I’ve never encountered one.” Bingo. “Why do you want to know?”

  My bottom lip sucks into my mouth, where I begin to gnaw at it. “I don’t know, I guess with all the death Dad deals with, I just thought, maybe there’d be ghosts?”

  She thinks about this for another minute, then says, “Huh.” And then, as if the whole conversation never happened, she picks up the plate of cold sandwiches, hops off the stool and tosses them in the trash. Not giving the topic of ghosts another thought, she says, “Well, I’m sure you’ve got some more unpacking to do, so why don’t you hop to it. I
’m going to go to the store, again.”

  Unbeknownst to her, my room is unpacked—I had a little help. However, I do feel eager to get back there just the same. Confront the ghostboy and maybe figure something out.

  Standing in front of the door to my room, again, I pause briefly. I’m half expecting ghostboy to have destroyed my stuff with another tornado, or hurricane, or some other vengeful weather phenomenon that ghosts can create. But when I push the door open and step inside, everything is exactly how I left it. Betty Boop is still striking a provocative pose, my unmentionables are still closed tight in their drawer, and my books are still stacked in neat piles. “Pssst,” I whisper. “Pssst. Are you here?” I inch further away from the door, scowling a little at the fact that I'm actually trying to talk to a ghost.

  “I’m here.”

  I yelp with surprise.

  “Don’t do that!” I say through clinched teeth, heart beating a little faster. “Show yourself, you scared me half to death,” I spit out, but then feel a little guilty as the ghostboy materializes in front of me. He starts out as swirls of grainy color before they converge and connect like a puzzle to make up the features of a person with sad eyes and furrowed eyebrows. “Sorry. Sorry, I didn’t mean that, like, literally.” I mean, shit. Shit! How the hell do you talk to a freakin’ ghost?

  I’m not crazy, I’m not crazy—I chant over and over in my head. This is so surreal. Again I am faced with the unbelievable, torn between what’s possible and impossible.

  This kinda stuff just doesn’t happen, not in real life.

  But as I look into the eyes of this—person, or ghost, I can see clear as anything he is in fact standing in front of me, as real as can be.

  “I’m—I’m sorry I scared you.” He looks away with guilt.

  Putting my hand to my chest, catching my breath slightly, I reply, “It’s okay.”

  It’s not really though. I’m still getting used to the fact he’s here. I can’t quite wrap my head around it. He’s just lucky he’s good looking. I think I’d draw the line at zombie, pointy teeth and disfigured body type ghosts.

  “But, if you’re not in my head, which I think we’ve established...I need some information,” I add.

  His head tilts as he gives me a look I can’t discern.

  “You do know you’re a ghost, right? I mean you are dead, aren’t you?”

  His features shift, head now tilting to the ceiling. “I think so.” Then he walks to the door of the closet. “I mean, if I can do this—” he walks through the door, “I think that means I’m dead, a ghost—” and he pops back through, as if it’s nothing, no big deal. “Right?”

  My jaw drops. Seeing him materialize in front of me just doesn’t quite have the same effect as seeing someone walk through a door. “Uh huh. I think that proves it even more.”

  He takes a few gentle, silent strides towards me. “I’m sorry I scared you,” he says again, his voice so soft and tender it’s hard to believe it came from the same person as before.

  “You said that already,” I whisper. Still in awe there is a real, live—or I guess dead—teenage ghost in my room.

  Back in California, Bryce hardly spent any time in my room. Sure we hung out and did homework, but it was always in the living room. We made out in his car, or in his room, but never mine. For some reason, it just never happened. There never seemed to be a “hey, let’s go to my room” moment. Mom was always around and had an open door policy, so if we were going to do something, it was outside the walls of my home.

  My room has always been kind of private in a way. Having a complete stranger in here—whether he’s dead or not—feels a little like an invasion of my privacy. Then again, I don’t have anything to hide, not anymore. That whole clean slate business meant I left any incriminating evidence back in LA. It wasn’t much, a few cans of spray paint, half full bottles of liquor, condoms, not that I’ve ever needed them and of course, let’s not forget my all around bad attitude.

  “I meant,” he pauses, and from here I can see the tiniest silver dot on his ear. I didn’t know guys still got things pierced, not unless it’s those hideous ones like rings through the nose or giant gaping holes created from spacers, but on him, it kind of adds to the whole package. Making him that much more interesting, and nothing, in the least, like Bryce. Not that you can compare Bryce with a ghost hottie. “For last night. I—I didn’t mean to—and for today—” He steps closer, now inches away. I shiver as cool air brushes against my skin. He frowns and takes a step back. “I didn’t mean—I’m sorry.”

  I wave him off. “It’s fine. Really. No big deal. I’m totally over it. It was only a tornado that scared the crap out of me.”

  He nods. “Right. Um. Sorry. It’s just that...well...I—”

  For a second I feel bad. Clearly he’s overcome with emotion and feels bad about what he did, even if I don’t understand why he did it. “Just please, please don’t do it again.”

  With a slight flick of his head, he says, “I won’t.”

  Feeling a little more comfortable, or at least enough that I’m pretty sure he’s not going to kill me, I take the few long strides necessary to make it to my bed. I flop down against the plush spotted duvet. Ghostboy stands, in the middle of the room, only his body turns to face me head on.

  Ghostboy...“So what’s your name anyway? What happened to you?”

  He raises his hand up, raking his fingers through his blond hair. “I don’t know.”

  I bring my feet up onto the bed, crossing my legs in front of me. Criss-cross apple sauce. My fingers begin to pick at a paid-for-hole in my jeans. “You don’t know what? You don’t know who you are? How is that possible?”

  From here, the sun streaming in through the window outlines him in gold, almost giving him an ethereal glow. My eyes sweep over him, and I wonder, is this the last thing he wore before he died? A simple, plain gray T-shirt, jeans and—looking at his feet, I’m slightly taken aback—black Converse All Stars.

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Anything?”

  He shakes his head.

  “Then what am I supposed to call you? I mean you do live in my room, don’t you?”

  He shakes his head again. I’m getting the feeling this ghost is a man of few words.

  “Then where do you go when you’re not here?”

  His shoulders lift and fall. “I don’t know.”

  I sigh, blowing a few fallen strands of hair out of my face. “But you said, you said they were coming back. Who’s they?”

  “I don’t know. Someone I used to know, I think.” He shifts his weight from one sneaker to the other.

  I sigh again, frustrated. “You tore up my room, scared the living daylights out of me and you don’t even know who they are?” I mutter a few obscenities to myself. I think I feel a bout of heartburn coming on.

  A shaky hand rakes through his blond hair, again, sliding down to grip the back of his neck. “It was just...instinct? I—I don’t know. At the time it...seemed like the—I just felt I had to—”

  “Keep me from moving in?”

  He nods sheepishly.

  Right. Of course, that totally makes sense. Not.

  “Okay, this is ridiculous. You’re dead. You don’t know how you died, you don’t know your name and you don’t know why you’re haunting this house. Seriously, could you throw me a bone here? I can’t help you if you don’t know anything.”

  His head falls, eyes looking at his feet as he again shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “Sorry?”

  The expensive hole in my jeans gets bigger as I pull at the frayed threads. The pink skin of my knee pokes through. “It’s okay. I don’t think it’s your fault exactly.”

  I’m telling a ghost it’s not his fault he’s dead. How do I know it’s not? For all I know, he could have been dumb and dove off a cliff without asking himself how deep the water was. Or he could have driven home from a party, drunk, and smashed into a tree.

  Letting out anoth
er exasperated sigh, I say, “Okay, well, what do I call you? I mean you need a name if you’re going to be hanging around, at least until we figure out who you are.”

  His stormy eyes meet mine. “Why don’t you choose?”

  “Okay...” I never had any pets growing up. One time, I tried to name a mouse Mom and Dad swore lived in the garage. But before I got around to befriending it, naming it, suddenly it disappeared. Of course now I know it probably got its neck snapped in a trap and was thrown in the trash. But even then, picking out a name for a mouse seemed impossible. A huge amount of responsibility I wasn’t quite ready for.

  And now I’m supposed to name a person? Great.

  I scan the room, looking at the stuff, trying to figure out what would be a good name. I think of my favorite characters from books, movies and TV but nothing seems fitting. All the while, ghostboy just stands there, waiting.

  Suddenly, I see my sunglasses, sitting atop my desk. I saved up countless hours of babysitting money for them. They’re name brand, and I just had to have them. My mom thought I was insane for wanting a pair of sunglasses so over priced, and that I’d probably lose them before the one-year warranty was up. But I bought them anyway, and treat them just as my Mustang, like they’re my babies. Polished, silver, Juliet Oakley’s with Fire Iridium lenses. They set me back like two-hundred bucks, but they are mine. Unlike so many of the things in my life, I managed to save and pay for them on my own, without my parents help.

  I snap my fingers. “Okay, I got it. Your new name is Oakley.” I smile, feeling pleased with myself.

  However, the wrinkle of ghostboy’s nose shows his utter and complete dislike for his new name. “That sounds like something you’d name a dog. Not a person.” He shakes his head, nose still wrinkled like he just smelled the foulest of aromas.

  I cross my arms. “I don’t care. You said I could choose, and if you want my help that’s what your name is.”