In the Middle of Nowhere

IN THE
MIDDLE OF
NOWHERE

Julie Ann Knudsen

Copyright © 2012 by Julie Ann Knudsen. Cover
and CHAPTER heading image copyright © Cover and CHAPTER heading
image copyright ©
Yulia
|
Dreamstime.com
.

This book is a work of fiction. Names,
characters, places and incidents are either products of the
author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to
actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely
coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can
be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means,
electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the
author or publisher.

Smashwords Edition: May 2012

DEDICATION

CHAPTER ONE
|
CHAPTER TWO
|
CHAPTER
THREE
|
CHAPTER FOUR
|
CHAPTER
FIVE
|
CHAPTER SIX
|
CHAPTER SEVEN
|
CHAPTER
EIGHT
|
CHAPTER NINE
|
CHAPTER TEN
|
CHAPTER ELEVEN
|
CHAPTER
TWELVE
|
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
|
CHAPTER
FOURTEEN
|
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
|
CHAPTER
SIXTEEN
|
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
|
CHAPTER
EIGHTTEEN
|
CHAPTER NINETEEN
|
CHAPTER
TWENTY
|
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
|
CHAPTER
TWENTY-TWO
|
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
|
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
|
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
|
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
|
CHAPTER
TWENTY-SEVEN
|
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
|
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
|
CHAPTER
THIRTY
|
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
|
CHAPTER
THIRTY-TWO
|
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
|
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
|
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
|
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
|
CHAPTER
THIRTY-SEVEN
|
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
|
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
|
CHAPTER
FORTY
|
EPILOGUE

ABOUT JULIE ANN KNUDSEN

To my family.
This book wouldn’t have been possible without your support.

CHAPTER
ONE

My iPod blared through my room and woke me
instantly. My eyes snapped open, but I quickly knew there was a
problem. Half of my body was still asleep. I rolled onto my back
and realized that my whole left side was completely numb. In a
matter of seconds, the numbness went away and was replaced by the
feeling of thousands of tiny pins and needles jabbing me.

I had to get up before the music traveled
through my paper-thin walls and woke my brother. I jumped out of
bed, forgetting about the shooting pain in my left hand, arm and
leg. I stumbled as I reached my dresser, but managed to switch off
my iHome before collapsing onto the floor.

I sprawled on my back, on top of my white
shag area rug. I moved my arms up and down making fake snow angels
like I did when I was a kid, hoping to rid myself of the pain that
consumed more than just my left side.

If I could have, I would have stayed on my
floor for the rest of the day, for the rest of my life. I knew I’d
never hear the end of it if I ran behind and missed the ferryboat
to school. My mother would scream from one end of the house all the
way to the other, as she swept up cat hair and hurried my brother
and me along.

As I moved my limbs up and down I thought
about how wonderful it would be if I could travel back in time to
when I was little again, to a time when I was truly happy. Back
then, my realities were Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy and my only
worry was how these mystical bearers of gifts would enter my house,
undetected, and not set off our alarm system.

Even though the numbness was fading from the
outside of my body, I couldn’t help but sense as though it was
taking over the inside of me. I wanted to feel again. I wanted my
old life back, my old school, my old friends and my old mom.

Then I heard it, the unmistakable footsteps
as they climbed the hardwood stairs and traveled across the hallway
floor, reverberating toward my room at the very end.

I jumped up and quickly locked my door before
anyone could open it.

The knocking came anyway.

“Getting dressed,” I yelled. “Be right
down.”

I threw off my pj’s, grabbed a T-shirt and
pair of jeans and headed toward the bathroom where I would attempt
to get ready for another useless and sucky day.

• • •

I almost missed the 7:00 A.M. ferry that was
to take me across Casco Bay from my new home on Pike’s Island to
the Maine State Pier in Portland’s Old Port section. Unlike the
elementary school, which was located on the island, the junior high
and high schools were located three miles across the bay, on what
the locals referred to as the “mainland.” Portland had two high
schools, which made the student body of my sophomore class a
manageable size of about two hundred kids.

Everyday, the other year-round students and I
would take the Casco ferryboat to and from school, even in the
cold, dead of winter. I couldn’t imagine what it would be like
crossing the small inlet of ocean in the middle of January, even if
it were only going to be for twenty minutes. There was a closed
cabin and heaters inside, but I was chilled to the bone most days
and it was still only the middle of September.

Once there, the other kids and I would board
the dull, yellow school bus that would take us on a mile-long drive
and drop us in front of the cold, concrete steps that led to the
large and looming front entrance of Portland High.

Everyday after I got dropped off at the dock,
my mother would head back and bring my brother, James, to his
elementary school, which was a block away from our house on the
island.

And just as I had suspected, my mother ranted
and raved about how late the two of us had been that morning.

“Hurry up and get in the car!” she yelled.
“You’ll both have to eat dry cereal again today.”

My mom grabbed her car keys, while James and
I grabbed our backpacks and headed out the door. We were lucky that
she was even awake and able to drive us at all.

I missed the days when my mother would gently
and lovingly wake me before school. She would sneak into my bedroom
and plant butterfly kisses on my plump, seven-year-old cheeks.
Sometimes my mom would even wear her favorite lime-green, paisley
apron as she happily made homemade, chocolate chip pancakes for
breakfast, right after she propped up a bottle for my baby brother
as he lay in his bouncy seat.

I could sense that poor baby James wanted to
eat the pancakes, too, as his little blue eyes followed the fork
from the plate right into my mouth before I began to chew the yummy
meal.

Today we had to make due with the tiny boxes
of cereal we always had on hand for cases of emergency, like the
one this morning.

I relished the quiet car ride as I munched on
my Froot Loops. I stared out the window at the homes and street
signs we passed on our way to the ferry and read: JUNIPER, MAGNOLIA
and WISTERIA. I wanted to try to memorize all the names because,
even though the island was only two miles by two miles wide, I
still found myself getting lost sometimes when I’d venture
outdoors, in need of some alone time.

James broke the silence and spoke with a
mouthful of Cheerios. “When can I go on the ferryboat to school?
That’s not fair that Willow can go on it and I can’t!”

I turned around from the front seat and shot
him a dirty look. My eight-year-old brother was so annoying and his
ridiculous question didn’t even deserve an answer. Our mom gave him
one anyway.

“I told you before, James. You have two more
years on the island and then you’ll take the ferry over to Portland
for middle school. Only
two
more,” my mother emphasized as
she held up two of her fingers.

Thankfully, our Jeep Cherokee pulled up to
the pier and I climbed out, but not before my mom rolled down her
window.

“Have a nice day!” she shouted after me, loud
enough for the other kids to hear. They turned and stared. I was
completely embarrassed. I gave my mom a quick wave, turned and
braced myself before boarding the boat ride to hell.

CHAPTER
TWO

Pike’s Island was among over two hundred
islands that were scattered throughout the Gulf of Maine’s Casco
Bay, a small area of water in the northern part of the Atlantic
Ocean. Pike’s was located a few miles off the coast and was one of
the four islands that was inhabited year-round. Pike’s Island was
the largest and had a population of approximately two thousand
people in the winter, but swelled to over six thousand residents
during the summer.

Most people, including those living in New
England, didn’t know that this small group of islands even existed,
let alone that people lived on them and had to rely on boats to get
to and from civilization.

My family and I ended up in this cold, remote
place after a tragic set of circumstances drove us here. I was ten
years old when my father, while on his way home from work, was
killed instantly after he was hit, head on, by a drunken driver.
The male driver was an illegal immigrant, had no license, no
insurance and died a week later.