Free The Ghost of Ben Hargrove by Heather Brewer Page A

specifics—there are no specifics. Before the cell is hazier still. I can only hope that that time will come back to me, and soon.
    When I first awoke in this room—and that was it for me, no screaming or dragging, I simply appeared here in a blink—I do remember that I tried finding a way out. I climbed onto my bed and examined the ceiling. I beat against the door with my fists. Finally, I stopped, hating the pain that shot up my arms with every blow and the bruises that had appeared on my skin. After what seemed like an eternity, I cried. I prided myself on that at the time, that it took me so long. My father would have been proud too. He’d always been a stern man, after all—a fact I could suddenly remember, as if the crying had unlocked it. Never quick with the hugs, and only ever offering the occasional high five or slap on the back as a show of affection.
    He wouldn’t have cried.
    He would have found a way out.
    Of course, now, after what must be months of my imprisonment, I let the tears flow until there is nothing left, the well run dry. Knowing I will cry again, and soon. Crying, I’ve come to realize, is not a sign of weakness. It is a way of unlocking. I am a seventeen-year-old man who’s been ripped from his life and trapped in a room without explanation. Without reason. Without apology. Crying is one of the few things I have left.
    â€œBecause they’re a bad influence, that’s why. When’s the last time you took out the garbage or cleaned your damn room? And you think you deserve to go to a party?”
    My dad didn’t bother hushing his voice so that Aaron, Tate, and Samantha wouldn’t hear. It was like he wanted them to witness his disapproval. Like maybe that would make them leave without comment, without confrontation. Like maybe if he said things about them rather than to them, it would be easier to get rid of my friends.
    I clenched my jaw, keeping my voice low. He was embarrassing me. “You don’t get to control every bit of my life. I’m going.”
    â€œLike hell you are.” My dad stood between me and the front door. Without a word, Aaron and Tate slipped outside behind him. Samantha soon followed, but not before giving me a look that said going with them would be worth this argument.
    â€œYou can’t stop me.” Mom approached Dad and put a gentle hand on his shoulder, as if to calm him. I moved my gaze between them. “Neither one of you can.”
    What was the big deal? So I wanted to go to a bonfire party at the lake. It’s not like I was dealing drugs or running with a killer gang. It was a party—much like the parties that I was sure my parents had probably attended as teens. No big deal, just a little fun. They acted like I was on the verge of becoming a serial killer or something.
    â€œWe can stop you from getting your license.” Mom’s tone was gentle but threatening. At least I knew whose side she was on.
    â€œThat’s bullcrap.” Outside the front window, I could see Tate sliding into the driver’s seat of his hail-dimpled Pontiac Grand Am. Aaron opened the passenger door. Samantha stood on the front lawn, eyeing my house with some interest, waiting to see what I would do. “That’s total bullcrap. You can’t threaten me like that.”
    Dad spoke definitively. “We’re your parents.”
    I pushed past them and moved out the door. Mom followed, saying, “Ben.”
    â€œI’m going.” I looked at her and then over her shoulder at my dad. Samantha’s eyes were on me. So were Tate’s and Aaron’s, but I cared more about hers. After a brief pause, I said, “You can do whatever you want, but I’m going to the party. With my friends. And I don’t give a crap what you think about them. Or me.”
    I climbed into the backseat with Samantha and as we peeled out of the driveway, she put her hand on my knee and gave it a