The next morning, I woke up in bed, my jeans, shoes and jacket draped over my desk chair. Confused, I could hear noise downstairs and climbed out of bed. The sun poured in through my window and I saw my clock on the windowsill. 11:07. Sighing, I picked up my brush and combed my dark hair, wondering how I was going to react once I saw my dad downstairs. Opening the door of my bedroom, I took a deep breath, and readied myself for a lecture that was sure to come from my mother. Instead, I saw her sitting at the table, a cup of herbal tea in her hands. Her eyes were staring down at the table, but she looked up when she saw me and smiled, “Good morning, Bon.”

“Morning.” I replied, smiling at my nickname, opening the fridge and grabbing the carton of orange juice, “Did you sleep good?” She guessed what I meant because she sighed heavily and said, “Somewhat.”

I put a tall glass on the table and poured the juice. Turning back to the fridge, I went to put the carton back when my mom’s next statement stopped me, “Where were you last night?”

I froze and sighed, “Mediating a poor soul to the other side. You know, the usual?” But I knew my mother was smarter then that.

“Bonita…” My mother replied, an edge entering her voice. I hate it when this happens, when she uses my full name and that tone. Makes me wish that dad didn’t have to work the morning shifts at the hospital on Mondays. I turned, put the carton back, and closed the fridge door. “Yes?”

“You snuck out last night didn’t you?” Still that edge.

I snatched the glass of orange juice and took a sip, “So? I was only doing my job. It’s not like I’m in trouble or anything. I only went to the Mission.”

“You know there are dangerous ghosts—”

“Mom, I’m sixteen years old. Get a grip. It’s not like you don’t go out alone and fix things yourself!” The glass was nearly gone by the time I put it down.

Mom ran a hand through her dark hair and sighed, “Bonita, with me it’s different.”

“How different?” I huffed, clenching my fists. “Dad’s a mediator, am I different then him too?”

“No.” My mother shook her head, “You don’t know how dangerous it is in—”

“Oh believe me, Mom, I know.” I replied, eyes stinging, “I know how ghosts work.” Oh great, now here come the waterworks.

“No, Bonita it—”

“Why don’t you just tell me that I’m half-ghost and be done with it?” I stormed back upstairs and slammed my door, letting myself cry into my pillow.