Avery Olive Won't Let Go (epub)

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.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 [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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