In the Middle of Nowhere (2 page)

My father was a supervisor at a manufacturing
plant that made engine parts for helicopters. The company was a
small, family-owned business and after my father died, my family no
longer received any of his benefits. Fortunately, my mom had a job
as the head librarian at the local community college in our small
Massachusetts town and we were able to get health insurance and
other benefits through her.

I was lucky because, even though I was young
when he died, I still had memories of my dad. My poor brother,
James, however, who was not yet three when he passed, was too young
to recall very much about him. My recollection of the accident and
the night the policemen showed up on our doorstep remained somewhat
foggy. I don’t know if I blocked out these terrible memories or if
I, too, was not old enough to fully remember them.

What I can recall from the days following his
death was that there seemed to be hundreds of people who filtered
in and out of our home and even more who showed up at his funeral
to pay their respects. My mother felt that James was too little and
would be disruptive during the service, so he stayed back home with
a sitter. Despite standing as close to my mother’s side as I could,
even burying my face into the folds of her black woolen skirt, I
still felt afraid in the big, cold cathedral as each of the
mourners passed and expressed their deepest sympathies.

My father didn’t have any living relatives
close by. He was an only child and both his mother and father had
died long before I was born. That made my mom, brother and me his
only survivors.

It was clear that everyone adored my father,
especially me, his only daughter. He called me his princess all the
time and when he really wanted to butter me up to help him with
some unpleasant chore, he’d call me Willie.

“Willie? Where are you, sweetie?” he’d
called. “Come and help your old man with the trash.”

Reluctantly I’d emerge from my hiding place
feeling guilty if I didn’t pitch in.

“I don’t know how our family of four can
generate so much garbage,” he’d say as he dragged the cans toward
the curb. “Baby James barely eats at all, and what he does eat ends
up in his diaper anyway.”

My father would roll his merry, blue eyes,
slap the side of his head and act all surprised.

“That’s it,” he’d say with a smile as he
plugged his nose. “I’ll betcha that half of this trash is your
brother’s dirty, stinky diapers!”

We’d both laugh as we finished up our trash
duty. Afterwards, my father, on cue, would stop and stoop forward.
I’d take a running leap onto his back and wrap my skinny limbs
around him before beginning our journey up the long driveway into
our warm and cozy, trash-less home.

• • •

My mom and dad didn’t have a lot of money and
the meager life insurance policy that my dad did have mostly went
to pay for the cost of his burial. My mom was able to keep up with
the mortgage payments, but sometimes there was little else to spend
at the end of the month once food was bought and other bills were
paid.

As hard as it was to have lost my dad, we
were consoled by the fact that we were able to remain in the house
he treasured so much. He’d renovated most of it with his own two,
calloused hands after he and my mother purchased the three-bedroom
Cape at a very low price. My mother was afraid the walls would cave
in and fall down around us the moment we moved in, but my dad loved
the fixer-upper and promised to make it as good as new for her.

My dad built beautiful oak bunk beds for
James, even though he was still in a crib, and an ornate dollhouse,
with a working chandelier and tiny drawbridge for me. It was no
coincidence that my dollhouse resembled more of an elegant castle
than a comfy home as he made it especially for me, his
princess.

As comforting as it was to stay in our house,
it wouldn’t be forever as I had hoped. Toward the end of my
freshman year of high school, the community college where my mother
worked downsized their staff due to a decline in enrollment. And
because my mother was paid the most in her department, she was let
go first.

I had never seen my mother cry so much except
after my father had died and couldn’t have realized at the time
that this would now be the norm for most days to follow. I didn’t
know how to help or what I could do to comfort her. I gently patted
her shoulder as she sat at the kitchen table and cried over her cup
of coffee and the want-ad section of our local newspaper.

“Everything’s gonna be all right, Mom,” I
tried to reassure her. I was only fifteen years old, but so
desperately wanted to believe it, too. She touched my hand, but
never looked up. I know she didn’t want me to see her tears.

After months of failed attempts at finding a
job that would keep us in our house, my mother had no choice but to
put it up for sale and make plans for moving out. The problem,
however, was that we had no place to go. With no job, no income and
very little coming in from unemployment, our choices were limited
even if we wanted to rent a cheap apartment in our small town. My
mother’s parents were older and couldn’t afford to support us. They
already were on a fixed income living in their fifty-five and older
community. We couldn’t have moved in with them even if we had
wanted to. No children were allowed.

After tearful meetings and endless phone
calls with my mother’s older brother, Ron, my grandmother arranged
for our family to sell our beloved house. Before we knew what hit
us, we found ourselves packing up our lives and saying good-bye to
everything we knew and loved before relocating to my uncle’s
summerhouse, far away, on an island, in the middle of nowhere.

CHAPTER
THREE

The other students and I shuffled through the
hallways of Portland High as we headed to our homerooms. I took a
seat in the back of the classroom and laid my head down on top of
my books. I was still cold and tired and couldn’t warm up no matter
how hard I tried. I must have dozed off for a minute or two and
dreamt that someone was calling my name. I came crashing back to
reality when my name was called even louder this time.

“Willow Flynn!” Mr. Singer yelled out as part
of his morning roll call.

I looked up and raised my hand. “Here.”

I put my head back down on my pile of
knowledge and forced myself to stay awake.

“Tessa Anderson?” Mr. Singer sang. Sure, he
called my name with venom in his voice, but called out to Tessa as
if he were reciting poetry. “Tessa?”

Mr. Singer scanned the classroom. Perfect
Tessa Anderson was nowhere to be found. He gave up.

“Michael Cooper.”

Michael Cooper was sitting two rows to the
left of me, but didn’t answer. Instead, he stared at me and smiled.
Nervously, I kept my head down and looked away.

“Michael Cooper! I see you back there,” Mr.
Singer shouted. “Answer me!”

Michael slowly turned toward the teacher.
“Sorry. Here.”

Just then Tessa Anderson sailed into the
room, waved to Mr. Singer and sat. “Sorry I’m late, Mr. Singer. My
locker was jammed and I couldn’t get it to open.” She was such a
suck up and a liar.

“Not a worry, Tessa,” Mr. Singer beamed.
“Just glad you made it here at all.”

Mr. Singer was so creepy looking with his
long, bushy sideburns and slicked back, greasy hair. He was stuck
in the 80s and looked as if he were hoping to win “best costume” at
a retro-themed Halloween party.

I must have dozed off again for a split
second, but was awakened after something hit me in the head. I
looked down and saw a tiny paper airplane on the floor next to my
feet. I sat up and looked around.

There was Michael Cooper, with his intense,
dark eyes, smiling at me again. He was starting to give the creeps
as much as Mr. Singer.

He mouthed to me, “Read it.”

I picked the airplane off the floor and
opened it. Inside, scribbled in pencil, was a note.

“Sweet dreams, my dear,

Sweet dreams, you dare?

Be done with dreams

And face your fear.”

What the heck was that supposed to mean? I
glanced over at Michael but his back was to me as he coughed and
faced the plate glass window. I crumpled up the airplane and stuck
it in my coat pocket. I’d toss it in the garbage on my way out of
homeroom. But I needed to get outta there fast in case Creepy
Cooper tried to talk to me.

I looked at the clock. The minute hand
ticked. The bell rang. Homeroom over. I bolted for the door and ran
straight into Tessa Anderson.

“Sorry,” I apologized.

She shot me a dirty look. “Chill,” she said,
before twirling back around and hitting me in the face with her
long, shiny blonde hair. Tessa looked exactly like the sort of girl
who’d be smack in the middle of an Abercrombie & Fitch ad,
while my picture would be plastered on the side of a box of apple
cinnamon flavored oatmeal.

I rolled my eyes, tossed the note into the
trash and raced into the hallway, hoping to disappear into the
abyss of other swarming students.

CHAPTER
FOUR

It wasn’t long before my mother found a job
working as the assistant librarian at my brother’s elementary
school. She was thrilled because, even though it was only
part-time, all three of us would now be eligible to receive health
insurance. The money wasn’t great, but we were living rent free, as
my uncle owned the house we now called home on Juniper Drive.

By mid-October, the ferryboat ride to school
was even colder than I ever could have imagined. I zipped up my
Down North Face jacket all the way to my nose and huddled against
the window directly under one of the heating vents. I still was
unable to warm up on the inside, no matter how many layers I piled
on the outside.

The first month and a half of school passed
without much excitement. I was doing well in my courses because all
I did in my free time was study since my social life was completely
non-existent.

Thank God for the Internet and FunForum.com
where I could connect online with three of my best friends back in
Massachusetts. Our friendships began when we were just seven years
old and stuck in the same second grade class. It continued to
blossom throughout middle school, right on into high school.
Secretly, we called ourselves the “Fab Four.” We were very close
and knew everything about each other. We weren’t in the popular
group like some of the other girls, but we knew we could count on
one another. At the end of the day, we always had each other’s
backs.

Luckily, all three of my friends and I had
computers with built-in cameras. We would all sign on to FunForum
at the same time and chat for hours on end. It was my salvation
while living on the cold and lonely island.

I had told the girls about Michael Cooper and
his creepiness back in September, about how he tried to friend me
on MyWeb and how I had deleted his request.

Gabby had commented first. “Give him a
chance, Willow. He looks kinda cute in his profile picture.”

“Yeah, cute if you’re into devil
worshipping!” Sarah chimed in. Everybody had laughed, except for
me.

Becca sensed my unhappiness and tried to take
control of the situation. “Stop it, guys! We need to support Willow
and whatever choices she makes, even it’s embarking on a
relationship with the spawn of Satan.” The girls laughed, even
Becca.

I was pissed and threw them my middle finger.
“Ha ha. Very funny.”

Becca leaned forward and kissed her camera.
“This one’s for Willow only. I’m sorry, friend.”

“Seriously. I told you guys that I don’t like
him and I haven’t even seen him anywhere in school since he wrote
me that note over a week ago.”