Free The Lost Boys by Lilian Carmine

that.
    “They’re not actually ‘changing’ colors, they’re always gray, but I get your point,” he said, growing a little impatient at my obsession with his eyes. Then his stomach made a loud rumble. He blushed, embarrassed. “Sorry. I’m … really hungry,” he said staring at his plate “I forgot about that.”
    “Forgot about what?”
    “You know, being hungry,” he said quietly, putting his hand on his belly.
    “It’s one of the many fabulous perks of being alive. Still happy about it?” I said, smirking.
    “Yeah. I’m still happy,” he said, smiling softly, with indeed so much happiness in his eyes.
    That knocked me a little sideways, and it was my time to stare at my plate in an awkward silence, but not for long. My mom appeared with two plates heaped with eggs and bacon. “Here we go! Eat up, you two!” she commanded.
    Tristan ate in silence, focusing on his food, while my mom and I chatted non-stop about all the things that happened yesterday, retelling the incident from our points of view. We tried not to ask him questions, to give him time to adjust and feel more at ease, more comfortable so he could start trusting us. Even though my head was buzzing with a thousand questions. When did he die? And how? Was he now fully human? Would he age? Did he know what happened at the cemetery and why he was alive now? He would glance at us occasionally, sometimes looking mystified, sometimes looking like he was avoiding something, but he didn’t say a word. When we were done eating, he stood up and grabbed our plates.
    “Don’t worry, Mrs. Gray, I’ll do the dishes. Thank you for a wonderful meal, everything was great!”
    My mom raised her eyebrows at me, clearly impressed. I guess you could say that whatever time Tristan was from, it was one where people had far better manners!
    The doorbell rang and my mom jumped. “Oh, dear. Look at the time! She’s here already. Miss Violet’s come for a visit,” Mom said, rising from her seat. “She’ll want to talk to us all. Tristan, you can leave those dishes there. Don’t worry, they’ll still be here when you get back.”
    Tristan frowned and reluctantly left the dishes at the side of the sink. He clearly did not want to have this conversation; I could tell by his sudden sour mood.
    We walked into the living room while Mom answered the door. We greeted Miss Violet as she entered, and we all sat down: Tristan on the couch next to me; my mom and Miss Violet in the armchairs either side of us.
    “How’s your friend doing, Miss Violet?” I asked, remembering how frail the old lady had looked yesterday evening.
    “She’s doing all right now, dear. It’s very nice of you to ask,” Miss Violet said. “She actually helped me last night to unravel part of the mystery you’ve got yourself into.”
    “I-I’ve got myself into?”
    “With the help of your friendly ghost over there, evidently,” she retorted.
    Something dark flashed in Tristan’s eyes as he glared pointedly at Miss Violet.
    “Now, about your little predicament here,” she said, looking at me and not caring at all about Tristan’s glares. “We did some research into the Gray family tree – as much as we were able, at such short notice. The internet is a wonderful thing, my dears,” she said as an aside, surprising both Mom and me. “Apparently, there’s witch blood in your bloodline, which is why you were able to see Tristan when he was a ghost, Joe. And probably why you were able to perform that spell even without realizing. The magic in you is untamed, but it’s really strong. You seem to have developed quite a lot on your own already.”
    “Are you seriously saying I’m a witch?” I shrieked, freaked out.
    “I’m always serious, dear,” she said a little sharply. “But no, that’s not what I said.” Then she added quickly, “Well, you’re not a witch yet. You have potential, but it requires work, training, commitment, lots of practice and a lot of study to