Fifteen

                                    

                                          

                            

                                
                            
                              
                                  
                              
                              
                                
                                  
                                  
                                
                              
                             
                            
                            
                          
                          
                          
The light in the living room flicks on as soon as I step through the front door. 
                          
I chew on my lip, smiling innocently at my parents who both look at me sternly, arms crossed over their chests. 
                          
"Hi," I say. 
                          
"It's twelve fifteen in the morning," my mother says. 
                          
I blow a current of air out of my lips, struggling to think of an excuse. "Yeah..." 
                          
"Jane, I thought we were past this. Coming home late? Unable to provide an excuse? Have you been drinking again?" My mother rambles on.
                          
"No, I haven't," I snap. "And I just went for a drive, alright?" 
                          
"Until past midnight?" 
                          
"It was a long drive. Can I just go to bed?" 
                          
My parents exchange a look. 
                          
"Fine, but you're grounded," my mother says. "No car unless it's driving to or from school. We'll talk about the rest of your punishment tomorrow." 
                          
I frantically look to my father for some sort of help, but he nods along with my mother.
                          
"Fine," I snap. I brush past them and up the stairs, trying to hold in my anger. Being grounded is not what I need right now, especially when I'm trying to find out who Harry's murderer is. However, I can't tell my parents that. 
                          
Hey, guess what Mom and Dad? I met a dead boy and now I'm possibly endangering my own life by helping him find out who killed him so he can move on to the afterlife. Is that cool with you? 
                          
I dramatically slam the door to my room and huff. Being an impulsive person can have its perks, but it also has crippling disadvantages.
                          
I'm just glad my parents don't know that I missed the second half of the school day today. Hopefully I can come up with a good enough excuse by tomorrow, if the school doesn't rat me out first. 
                          
I change for bed and lie staring at the ceiling in the dark. 
                          
I flash back to earlier today when I reached for Harry's hand; when I momentarily forgot his lack of physical touch. I am so used to physical gestures coming naturally-all humans are. A comforting hand on the shoulder or a celebratory high five; it's all part of who we are. We take it for granted, and Harry is denied of that simple luxury in his state.
                          
It's amazing, though, how his touch seemed to spark ice cold electricity in me-two opposites of nature, hot and cold, seeming to combine within his lifeless being. 
                          
Death took his body, his touch, and his breath. It left his spirit. 
                          
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I walk down the hallway, the sound of my shoes echoing through the empty space. I swing the hall pass in my hand, letting out a sigh.