Won't Let Go Read Online Free PDF Page A

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