Won't Let Go by Avery Olive

personality. The fact that he's totally hot is hard to ignore. I don’t know much about ghosts, but I think if I—we—can figure out what happened to him, he’ll be free to move on. Maybe that’s why he’s still here. And as for me, I don’t think I can ever feel like this is my room or my own space until he’s gone. 
    I toss on another pair of worn in, distressed jeans, cute socks with frogs on them and a faded Metallica concert T-shirt that I paid four-ninety-nine for at a thrift store in Hollywood.
    With my Converses in hand, I head towards the door, but pause, looking back at the closet and the fact that Oakley never showed up this morning. There’s a small pang in my stomach I quickly push down. He’s a ghost. He comes and goes as he pleases, and it shouldn’t matter to me what he’s doing or where he’s doing it.
    But it does.
    I’m curious, and as sad as it is, I’ve realized, so far he’s the only person I’ve—and I say this loosely—befriended here.
     
     
    “Where are you off to so early?” Mom eyes the sneakers dangling from my hand as I reach the bottom of the stairs.
    She’s still wearing her fuzzy pink bathrobe and slippers. Her eyes are glossed and she’s not fully awake, but that’s what the cup of coffee cradled in her hands is for.
    “I’m going to explore the town,” I say.
    She smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Right now? It’s a little early isn’t it? Besides, I thought we could go pick out paint colors today.” Hope fills her tone, and it’s all over her face.
    “I want to get the lay of the land. I mean I only have a few more days until school starts up.” It’s a lame excuse, I know.
    She releases one hand from her coffee filled mug and gestures to the kitchen. “At least have some coffee first? Maybe some Apple O's?”
    I relent and walk towards the kitchen, Mom close on my heels. If this will get her off my back, it’s the least I can do. A morning at the hardware store perusing paint chips is not my idea of fun, at all.
    Mom grabs another mug from the cupboard next to the sink. It’s one of those photo mugs. You know, put your silly family picture on it and give it to someone as a gift. The idea always seemed tacky to me. However, one year for Father’s Day Mom dragged me to the mall, stuck me into one of those photo booths, and together we took some pretty funny pictures just so we could have mugs made for Dad. Of course, he loved them. Forever I am imprinted on a mug with Mom giving me bunny-ears, or my tongue lolling out of my mouth like a dog.
    The coffee mug she sets down in front of me is actually a nice one. Mom and I are smiling at the camera. I was twelve, and it was before my friends took over my life. I have a huge gap in my teeth—an awkward phase every kid seems to endure.
    I press my lip to the rim of the ceramic and blow lightly. It creates a wave of ripples, pushing the steam away. “Would you like one of those muffins you bought yesterday? They are delicious.”
    “Okay,” I say. She opens the plastic container and puts a muffin on a paper towel she’s torn off the roll. Setting it down, she sits on the stool next to mine. I feel her eyes on me. “What?”
    She takes a sip of her coffee. It’s an ochre color because she’s smothered the flavor with cream. “I just thought we could have a girl’s day is all.”
    Girl’s day. If Mom had it her way, she and I would spend every day giggling over chick-flicks, gossip magazines, or getting pampered at the spa. Sometimes I think I’ve been a bit of a disappointment to her. Being the only child, I think she assumed we’d always be close, I’d always think she was the greatest person in the world, and like everything she does. I still love her, but that’s just not me. I don’t like getting pampered. The odd manicure here and there is enough. Besides, I can paint my toenails just as good as anyone else can. I’m just not the girly-girl she’d hoped I’d be. I’m