Won't Let Go Read online

  He grumbles, a low throaty sound, still showing his displeasure, but says, “Fine. Oakley it is. But don’t expect me to follow you around, panting and begging like a dog. ’Cause it ain’t happening.”

  I nod. “Deal.” I smile a bit wider. Even if he doesn’t follow me around, or beg, he’s still kinda like a pet. I always wanted one, and a cute guy is way better than some dirty rodent that lived in the garage.

  Extending my hand, only to quickly pull it back as if the space in front of me is scorching hot, I say, “My name’s Alex. I think we need to figure out what happened to you.”

  Solving a mystery is the perfect way to spend the rest of spring break. If it wasn’t for the fact that Oakley’s dead, I’d almost be excited.

  Chapter Five

  So where does one start? Where’s the guidebook on figuring out how to help a ghost with...amnesia? Because as silence falls over us, Oakley still standing awkwardly in the middle of my room, like a statue, I have no idea how to move forward.

  I take in a deep breath. The small hole in my jeans is turning into a large gash. I can’t afford to wreck them—I put my own money out for these jeans, when Mom thought it was another ridiculous purchase. I can hear her voice now, in the back of my head, wondering why anyone would pay money for holey jeans. Just like my sunglasses and my beat up Mustang, these are luxuries I’ve had to pay for myself. My parents give me everything in the world, as long as they want the same thing, of course.

  But one thing I can’t afford is to have a ghost living in my room forever, as cool as it may seem. “So you really don’t remember anything?” I ask again, lifting my eyes to meet his.

  Oakley shakes his head. “No. Nothing. I just...I don’t know. It feels like I’ve always been here.”

  “Well all right then. I need—” I slide off my bed and Oakley takes a step back, giving me a wide berth, as if I repel him. Shaking it off, I look down at my jeans, and sure enough, the slit in them now exposes my entire kneecap. Crap. “—to think. I’m going to leave for a bit. You just...go do whatever it is you do.”

  Hesitantly, he nods. I’m learning that this is his preferred mode of communication.

  With my hand on the knob of the door, I look over my shoulder. “Just...try not to make a mess in here, alright?” Again, Oakley nods. I suppose this is better than a ghost that won’t shut up.

  Downstairs, the house is even quieter. I glance in the kitchen, empty, then Dad’s office, empty, too. “Mom?” I call out, but am met with continued silence.

  Striding over to the front door, I open it and step out onto the veranda. The sun is still high in the sky. Placing my hand up like a visor, I look at it. It’s not nearly as hot as back in California. The sun still, however, envelopes me with its warmth, casting bright rays onto everything it reaches.

  From here, I can see only the crest of the hill we are set on. It’s like the earth drops off as if it were square, everything beyond only speculation. Thick trees line the huge gravel drive, wrapping around the entire house, surrounding me with forest. As I make my way down the steps and around the side past the garage, only a small patch of overgrown lawn lies behind the house. On that sits a battered and weathered swing set, rusting in solitude. I decide to forge through the jungle and make my way to it.

  Gently, I tug on the linked metal rope holding up a plastic swing. It jingles and seems sturdy. Taking it under me, I sit, kicking out with my feet until I am propelled forward and backward. The metal whines with each half revolution.

  When I was a kid, we used to swing as high as we could, the metal chain whipping straight as we swung back and forth, until, if we were bold enough, we jumped off into the sandpit below. The swing would then fly in every direction with the loss of the weight that held it straight and steady.

  Though I can’t go as high as I used to, after a few minutes, the wind blowing my hair, I decide to jump. I pick a spot, a guess at how far ahead I can land, release my hold and let my body soar through the air, landing on two feet. Looking back towards the swing, I chuckle. I only made it about three feet, hardly a gold medal winning jump. But my mind is clear, as if the continued back and forth movement pushed everything out, and as I jumped I left it all behind.

  Sitting down, right where I landed—criss-cross apple sauce—I pull at the tall blades of grass, each one thin and bright green, reminding me of my mothers’ eyes, of mine. I twirl the blades around, squish them between my fingers, bruising them, so they leak green blood onto my hands. I pick at more of the grass, pulling huge chunks and tossing them aside. It begins to smell like a golf course, of freshly mowed turf. It’s not the same as the salty sea air back home, or the smog and haze of downtown LA, and for a moment I miss everything about California. The sights, the sounds and the smells. Here, in Willard Grove, I take deep gulps of air that’s just too perfect, clean and crisp. No cow manure like I’d thought, that’s for sure. And certainly no ozone killing fumes.

  But unlike the perfect air, the smell of grass, the weathered house is not perfect. The deep brown paint is chipped, the windowsills sag. Thick cobwebs dangle in the corners of the eaves and I’m pretty sure that’s a hornet’s nest I see, too. And yet, as I sit here, I can imagine it so differently. I stare off, into the unknown, where the house takes on a slightly new form in my mind. Once, someone took great care of this place. They regularly mowed the lawn, tended the flowerbeds, freshly painted each plank of wood that makes up the exterior, and in the spring, cleaned the windows. They probably took a broom, swatted away the webs. Maybe even hung Christmas lights from the eaves. Children once took great delight in the swing set, playing, running and laughing until they were forced by the dropping sun and twilight to come in, put on pajamas and get tucked into bed.

  Then, just like that, the light bulb goes on.

  I stand up and wipe the grass blood onto my jeans, dust off my bum and skip, a little lighter on my feet, towards the house. Even though Oakley can’t remember who he is, some part of him still does. Deep down, there’s something that pulled him here in the first place. And I, being the genius that I am, have deduced that either it’s because this house, that room, was the scene of the crime, or better yet, his childhood home. I’d prefer the latter. It’s bad enough Oakley is haunting the place. It would be harder adjusting to the fact if my room was where he died.

  It’s so simple. I can’t believe I didn’t think of it sooner. I guess I did need some fresh air after all. As I round the corner, I feel a force, like someone pushing on my back. I realize I’m almost excited to see Oakley again and share my small amount of news; the tiny little insignificant realization that could really blow Oakley’s case wide open. However, Mom’s silver sedan parked in the drive, trunk propped open, brings me to a halt.

  When Mom steps away from the trunk, it’s like a moment of mother’s intuition. She pauses mid stride and looks over her shoulder right at me. “Hey, Alexia, would you give me a hand?” But it’s not a question, her tone, makes it more of a demand. It’s an I’m asking you nice, but you have to do it statement.

  I comply, trudging over to the car. The trunk is full of white plastic bags, each one filled with an assortment of food. I grab three, heaving them out of the trunk and head up the steps, just as Mom heads back outside for round two. Apparently she wasn’t kidding about wanting to go to the store again, make a real go of it and stock up. We pass on the gravel. Her shoulder brushes lightly against mine just for an instant as we quickly go in opposite directions—the way it always seems like we are.

  When the bags are in the house, lining the marble counter space, she begins unpacking. “Can you believe this place doesn’t even have a Costco? I mean who doesn’t have a Costco or a Sam’s Club these days?”

  I take a bottle of ketchup and put it in the fridge. “Apparently Willard Grove,” I say, walking back to the bag I’m unloading. I pull out some bananas, each one slightly bruised and turning black. I wonder if Allison was the one to pack these, or if all employees at the grocery store h
ave no idea how to do their job.

  Brushing brown tendrils out of her face, Mom lets out a huff. “Who does this?” She motions towards a bag. Huh. It’s kinda funny, like mother like daughter—apparently we do still have things in common. I know exactly what she’s thinking. “Who puts frozen peas and corn with bread? Look—” She holds up a loaf of bread. Beads of condensation are forming on the inside, because, as the store boasts, their bread is always bakery fresh and warm from the oven. “—Now I’m going to have soggy bread.”

  “I’m sure it’ll be fine. Besides, bread’s only good for grilled cheese and toast, all of which can rectify the soggy situation.”

  “Yeah. I guess you’re right,” she says, not really paying attention. Instead she glares into another bag.

  I want to stick around and figure out if I’m at risk of Salmonella if I forget to wash my pear but instead say, “Well...I’d like to help out some more, but, duty calls.” I flick my head in the direction of my room.

  “All right, nice to see you’ve stopped procrastinating. I want you cleaned up for dinner though. I’m cooking meatloaf, your father’s favorite. Seems appropriate for our first real meal here.”

  “Sounds good.” I smile and back out of the kitchen.

  Yet again, I find myself staring down the silly crystal knob to my door. It’s the only thing that separates me from being a totally normal seventeen-year-old and one that talks to ghosts. For some reason, though, I choose to open the door, acknowledging the fact that ghosts are real.

  “Oakley?” I whisper. “You here?” I expect him to materialize in front of me, or stay invisible and let his voice ring out through the room. But after a few seconds of nothing, I stand, lips curled in a frown. “Oakley?” I say, in my normal, not so quiet tone. “Where are you?”

  I’m not sure how long I stand there before I realize he’s not coming. A small pang of something hits me in the gut. It’s an unknown emotion, but is there nonetheless. I can’t believe he’s not here. Where would he have gone? I expected him to be here, standing in the same spot as before, waiting for me. I really had no idea he’d have some place to go. I know he said he didn’t live here, but still, what kind of place could possibly be more interesting to a ghost with amnesia?

  Chapter Six

  I didn’t realize how much I’d missed home-cooked food until a steaming plate of meatloaf, mashed potatoes and asparagus swimming in butter was in front of me. In the days leading up to our move, Mom constantly purged the contents of the cupboards, the fridge and freezer. Even the usually fully stocked pantry had become barren. She’d decided it would be a bigger hassle to move it all. So instead, she donated the unopened canned and dry goods to the local food bank, off loaded as much freezer burnt meat to our neighbors as possible and just plain threw the rest in the trash. We lived on take-out, and during the seventeen hour drive, tacky diner food.

  While I stuffed my face, however, Oakley and my room were never far from my mind. I’d glance at the stairs or the ceiling and wonder if he was up there waiting for me.

  As soon as I finished my second helping—sometimes you have to over-eat, because it’s just that good—I ran up the stairs, only to find he still wasn’t there. Solemnly I took the stairs back down and sat in the living room. Dad regaled us with stories about how great the new hospital is. How the doctors there have so much potential, and given some time he’d be able to make this a state of the art facility with all the equipment needed to take on the more—as he put it—tricky cases. The ones I knew he loved.

  And now, as I pull open the drawer of my dresser that holds my worn out T-shirts and shorts, with a stuffed belly and tired brain, I’m saddened to find Oakley not here, again. Where could he be? I shout in my head, grabbing hold of a Huntington Hill’s High gym T-shirt and a pair of gym shorts and tossing them on the bed.

  I walk into the bathroom, pull out my ponytail and brush out my waves of brown hair. Constantly I glance over my shoulder, hoping he’ll come back. Methodically, I wash my face, brush my teeth and pull my hair into a quick braid. Still, no Oakley.

  Letting out a sigh, I head back into my room, over to the bed and tug my jeans down. I throw them into a heap in the corner and slip on my shorts. My shirt is half over my head, when I hear a creaking door, then a very velvety and embarrassed, “Oh God. Shit, I’m sorry.” Just as I pull my shirt back down, I see the closet door close the last few inches until it’s shut tight. Then, muffled from the inside, “Just—uh—tell me when you’re finished?”

  My cheeks flush and burn as my stomach flutters. He’s back. Quickly, I wrench my shirt off, unclasp my bra and pull my pajamas on. I throw the dirty stuff with the jeans. Then looking at the pile in the corner, I decide to stuff the clothes into the nearest drawer.

  When everything is squared away, I brush down the wrinkles in my shirt and say, “I’m ready.”

  The closet door slowly opens. Oakley steps through and into the small amount of light streaming from Betty Boop.

  Awkwardly, I stare, breathing him in. “You changed your shirt,” I say, matter of factly. His new one is teal blue. Somehow it makes his eyes pop just that much more.

  Oakley looks down, touching the hem with his fingers. “Yeah.” He nods.

  “How’d you do that? I mean, do you have a stash of clothes somewhere?”

  He continues fidgeting with his shirt. I swear I see his fingers touching the delicate fabric as he pulls at the threads. He’s a ghost. Wouldn’t his fingers pass right through? “No stash. It’s—It’s something I can just...do.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “Show me?”

  There’s a small quirk of a smile, barely visible. “What’s your favorite color?”

  Raising my finger to my chin, I think. He’s already wearing blue. That’d be my top choice. I’ve never been much of a girly-girl, covering myself from head to toe in pinks and purples, pastels or otherwise. But hey, why not have some fun. “Pink,” I say.

  Oakley closes his eyes, hiding their beautiful blue. His features shift, a crease along his forehead becomes prominent, like he’s concentrating really hard. The color from his shirt drains like a tipped over glass emptying, until slowly, it’s righted. And the liquid—or in this case color—fills back up until his shirt, no longer blue, is pink. It’s so bright I want to shield my eyes or look away because it might burn my retinas.

  A giggle escapes my lips. Quickly, I cover my mouth with my hand. “That is so cool. Do it again?” I ask.

  “Okay, what do you want now?”

  I don’t know why, but just in that moment I want to know what he’d look like totally dressed to the nines. I want a shirt, a tie, a jacket, Hell, maybe even a cummerbund but that’s not what I say. That’s taking it a little far. Instead I say, “Green.” That’s my second favorite color.

  His eyes fall closed again. “Okay, here we go.” His lips tug at the corners into a hint of a grin.

  This time, the transition is quicker. Within seconds the pink shirt fades to gray then is replaced with green. I swear if I were standing right next to him, my eyes level with the shirt, they’d be the same color, just like the blades of grass in the backyard.

  “I like green on you. How’d you learn to do that?” I ask, curiosity running through my veins.

  He shrugs. “I don’t know. I just learned it somehow. I close my eyes, think about what I want and it happens.” His voice is soft, even softer than this morning.

  I want to keep playing, learn more about him—or what he knows about himself—but I remember I wanted him here for a reason.

  That I had to tell him something.

  I take a few steps towards my bed and as I get closer to it, and to Oakley, the temperature in the room drops a few degrees. He brings with him such cold air, it pricks my arms with goose-bumps, and I’m sure, if I were any closer to him, I’d be able to see my breath.

  Once back at my bed and away from Oakley, the space warms up slightly, but that doesn’t stop me from crawling under the covers.
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br />   “Maybe I should go?” Oakley looks to the closet door, then finds my eyes.

  “No, no, I’m just getting comfortable,” I say. I gather the covers around me, pulling them close and prop my head up with pillows. “Why don’t you sit down?”

  He scans the room. His eyes fall on me and maybe the leftover space on the bed, then however, they notice the chair at my desk. His steps are quiet, a whisper of tip-taps. When he reaches the chair, he sits down, and the leather squishes and scrunches. Weird. Sometimes it’s as though he walks on air, making not a single peep. Other times, I forget he’s a ghost. His actions are so human-like, the tip-tap of his feet, the ability to open doors. And now how his body forms to the chair, it’s as though he’s really sitting in it.

  I have to adjust my position to get a better view of him, and as I do, part of me wants to know where he was all day, wants to interrogate him. I wonder if he’s annoyed I’m the person forced to help him. If that’s why he’d been gone all day. Instead, I just come straight out with it, what I’d been waiting all day to tell him. “So I was thinking,” I pause.

  Oakley instantly shifts forward. He rests his elbows on his knees, head in his hands. Through the dim lighting of the room, he looks pretty eager to hear what I have to say, which makes me that much more nervous to say it.

  My heart speeds up a beat or two. I clear my throat and start again, “I was thinking that maybe, just maybe, you know this house. That a part of you remembers it.” He nods, so I continue, “Either this is where you died, or, and I’m hoping this more than anything, you remember this house because it’s where you grew up.”

  “Makes sense.”

  Gah! I want to yell at him and his stupid monotone one-liners and head nods. I ignore his sign of blah-ness and say, “So tomorrow I am going to go to the library, maybe see if I can dig something up.”

  He’s dead, this isn’t a huge town, I’m sure I can solve this case lickity split by looking through the obituaries. How many teenage kids could have possibly kicked the bucket in town? Then my mind wanders back to the stuffed cemetery we drove past to get here, how it seemed to bulge at the seams of the fenced perimeter. I shake it off. I still think I can have this case broken wide open in no time.