Never Lost

The first in a five-book series, “Never Lost” opens just as sixteen-year-old Harper Johnston is trying to adjust to moving from the suburbs of Chicago to the remote Wisconsin farm town where her mother grew up. Harper is convinced that there is nothing for her in this town, which she sarcastically dubs “Hick Town USA.” All she wants is to go back home to her old house and her old school and her old friends. Then Harper meets Danny, who is unlike any other boy she’s ever met before. There is something different—maybe even
magical—about him that Harper can’t quite put her finger on. Then Harper earns Danny’s secret…and decides that moving to Oak Leaf was maybe not such a bad idea, after all….

Never Lost
(part 1
- Never Lost Series
)

A short story

By

Riley Moreno

Copyright
©
2012 Riley Moreno

http://rileymoreno.blogspot.com

Cover art by Riley Moreno

Kindle Edition, License Notes

This
ebook
is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy (unless it was on a free promo). Many thanks for supporting the hard work of this author.

I awake to the cold.  No surprise there.  I’ve been cold all night.  There’s a crack between the pane and the sill of the window across from my bed where the chilly fall air is allowed to seep in.  I’m huddled here beneath the covers like a freaking Eskimo, fully dressed in my warmest hoodie, two pairs of socks, and my comfiest jeggings.  The quilt on the bed smells musty.  Everything in the room smells musty.

             
I miss my old home, my old familiar room with its effective windows and warm carpeting and the stupid murals my friends and I hand-painted on the walls the summer we were twelve—ridiculous portraits of boys we liked, and smiley faces and cute little animals.  I liked the lopsided yellow duck the best.  But now he’s gone, left behind.  And I’m here in this horrible farmhouse smack in the middle of nowhere.

             
“Harper!” Mom’s voice cuts through the air, finding its way into my hellhole of a new room and banishing any thoughts of additional sleeping from my mind.  “Breakfast!” she shrills.

             
“Coming!” I return. 
Muttering under my breath, I peel myself off the lumpy old mattress.  I can hardly wait to set up my bed from home in here.  The four-poster contraption I’ve been forced to sleep on the past couple of nights looks dangerously close to caving in.

             
In the bathroom, I splash some cold water on my face, brush my teeth, and smooth on deodorant.  I reason that I’m already dressed, so there’s no point in changing.  I’ve even got a bra on under
the clothes I slept in
.  I drag a pick through my long mane of wild chestnut curls, frowning at my reflection in the mirror.  I look like a ghost, my fair skin paler than ever, dark circles ringing my blue eyes. 
Gross.

             
A little makeup does the trick, mascara brightening my eyes and blusher detracting from the pallor of my skin.  Halfway satisfied, I smear on some lip gloss and plod downstairs.

             
Mom and Uncle Lenny are at the kitchen table, drinking coffee, and my seventeen-year-old brother Chase, a year older than I am, is parked on the cracked Formica countertop, his cell phone wedged between his ear and
shoulder.  He doesn’t look any happier than I am, and right this moment, he’s filling his girlfriend Monica in on how much it sucks to be here.
  (I can tell Mom’s doing her best to tune him out.)
  Outwardly, Chase is pretty much the male version of me: same fair skin, blue eyes, wild dark curls.  And inwardly, I guess we’re similar too—similar enough, at least, to get along most of the time.

             
I give him a little finger wave and a sympathetic glance before pouring myself a cup of coffee and joining Mom and Uncle Lenny at the table. 

             
“Good morning, sunshine,” Mom says extra-chipperly.  She slides a platter of bacon across the table toward me, obviously forgetting, in all of her enthusiasm, that I don’t eat red meat.

             
I cock an eyebrow at her.  “Sunshine?”

             
Mom laughs, and so does Uncle Lenny.  I take a still-warm buttermilk biscuit from a large bowl and slather it with jelly, then slide an egg onto my plate, along with a few apple slices.  One thing I’ll say for Uncle Lenny is that he fixes a pretty extensive breakfast.

             
“Nice day to be outside,” he observes, flipping a page in the sports section of the newspaper.  I follow his gaze to the window.  It’s golden out; multicolored leaves litter the never-ending 
yard
, trees flame orange and burgundy, and the sunshine
drizzles over everything, like icing on a coffeecake.

             
“Chilly, though,” I say, just to be perverse.

             
Uncle Lenny glances at me.  “Who says nice weather and warm weather are one and the same?”

             
I shrug.  “It’s cold in here, that’s all.  I was freezing last night.  Something’s wrong with the windows in this place.”

             
“Harper!” cries Mom, admonishing me.

             
Uncle Lenny cracks a smile.  “No, she’s right, Diana,” he says.  “There are some cracks in the sills around here that need caulking—up in her bedroom, too.  I forgot about that.”

             
Although I resent Uncle Lenny for inviting us out here to live with him, I’m grateful that he’s taking my side.  It’s the least he could do….

             
Uncle Lenny’s an interesting person, not really one of those warm and cozy uncle types who swoops you up and calls you princess, but not a jerk, either.  Mom says he’s hardened, but not hard.  I guess that about fits. 

Uncle Lenny’s mom’s brother, and while they’re both a quarter Algonquin Indian
 
on Granddad’s side of the family, you’d never know it by looking at Mom.  She’s fairer than Chase and me put together, with sort of dishwater-blonde hair and blue eyes.  Uncle Lenny, on the other hand, has the whole Native American vibe going on: creased tan skin, flinty eyes, dark hair back in a ponytail.  He really plays it up, feather-shaped earrings in his lobes and leather cording to tie back his hair.
 

Chase says that all he needs is war paint.  But the look fits Uncle Lenny, as do his pilled flannel shirts, well-worn jeans, and tooled-leather boots.  He’s an enigma, with a hard-drinking party boy side b
alanced by a reserved
compassion and mild sense of humor.

I never minded Uncle Lenny—in fact, I always sort of liked him, until Grammy died, and Uncle Lenny invited Mom and Chase and me to come live in the farm house with him.  I guess he was lonely or something; who would ever have guessed that after looking out for my grandparents all those years, providing for them on his income as a locksmith at the local hardware, and taking care of the house and grounds, that
proud
Uncle Lenny would pine for company in their absence?  People are such a riddle. 

Anyway, Mom jumped at the opportunity to
leave behind our happy lives in a little ranch house in the suburbs of Chicago and move back into her childhood home in the nether regions of Wisconsin farm country.  As a single, working mother, she said it made a lot more sense to not have to pay rent on a house; besides, she missed her home and brother, and everything came
cheaper in Wisconsin, and she could easily arrange to work long-distance for the publishing company where she’s an editor. 

Yada, yada, yada.  Never mind that moving here came with great cost to Chase and me, forcing us to leave behind our high school and our friends and Chase’s girlfriend and our extracurricular activities….

We got here two nights ago.  So far, my brother and I haven’t been to our new school
yet
.  We start next week, I guess.  Oh, joy!  Welcome to Hick Town USA.  How am I ever supposed to meet a guy around here, one who actually
washes his hair and doesn’t dress in overalls and work boots?  Okay, so I know that sounds stereotypical, but I really don’t care.  What right did Mom have to bring us here?  And as long as we have to live on a farm, why can’t it be a functional farm, full of big-eyed animals and pumpkin patches, rather than a couple rickety outbuildings, falling into utter disarray?

I’m sorry that Grammy died for a lot of reasons—including the fact that I really loved her—but whether this sounds selfish or not, I must say that I’m sorriest for me.

Like, what am I even supposed to do here today?  This is Saturday, for heaven’s sake.  Back home, I’d be out shopping with my BFF Whitney, or planning my costume for the big Halloween bash that I was sure to have been invited to at Aaron Rydell’s house.  But instead, I’m stuck here, in this claustrophobic excuse for a house, with rooms so small you can hardly breathe in them, and—

“Harper?” Mom snaps her fingers in front of my eyes.  “What in the world are you
daydreaming
about?  Didn’t you hear what Uncle Lenny just asked you?”

I stare at her, then down at the biscuit in my hand, about to drip peach jelly onto my jeggings.  I tip it upright quickly, lick the sticky jelly from my
fingers, and turn to my uncle.  “No, I’m sorry.  I was…
thinking
.”

Uncle Lenny assesses me, reaching one hand beneath the table to acknowledge Grammy’s old cat, Muffin, who’s brushing against his ankles.  “About how much you wish you hadn’t left Chicago?” he probes.

His flinty eyes are emotionless, and I can’t tell whether or not I detect a note of humor, even sympathy, in his voice.
  It’s funny how everyone from out of town calls the suburbs “Chicago.”

“Ummm,” I hedge, dabbing my lips with a napkin.  I stare at it intently, at the peach jelly and lip gloss smudge I’ve left.

Uncle Lenny laughs.  “You don’t have to lie, Harper.  But you’ll get used to it here, I promise you.  I was just suggesting that you and your brother take Granddad’s old car and drive into town.  I’ve got my pick-up here for errands, and I hear this weekend’s the annual Autumn Fest.  Brings out a lot of people; maybe you’
ll even
meet someone your age.”

Uncle Lenny’s trying to be understanding, and I’m touched.  At the same time, I’m not exactly crazy about the idea of
attending some Hick Town event.  Then again, what alternative do I have?  I could sit in my room and read all day, I guess….

I glance over at Chase.  He’s just ended his phone call with Monica, and now he slides off the kitchen counter, stretching his arms.
  His hoodie pulls across his torso, and I notice how filled-out he’s gotten lately.  It’s weird to see stuff like that happening to your brother.

I can tell he heard what Uncle Lenny said to me.  “You want to go into town?” I ask.  I’ll take my cue from him.

Chase shrugs, tucking his cell into the back pocket of his jeans.  “Didn’t have any other plans,” he says.  That confirms it.

Chase and I don’t have much of a problem finding our way from Granddad’s farm to the small downtown area of
Oak Leaf. 

“What a stupid name for a town,” Chase says, pulling into a parking space in front of a pretty sad-looking little bank and trust.  “Oak Leaf.  It’s like an afterthought or something.”

“Probably was,” I agree.  “I mean, look at this place.”  We get out of Granddad’s rusty Buick, and I make a sweeping gesture with my arms. 

Downtown Oak Leaf encompasses about one-and-a-half block lengths of shoddy-looking
establishments: two diners, a
hokey coffee shop (What? No Starbucks?), several novelty shops, an absolutely ancient five-and-dime, a pharmacy, a bakery, a puny library, the bank and trust, a gas station,
the hardware store where Uncle Lenny works,
and a small food mart.  The whole place looks stuck back in the 1970’s.  It’s an out-of-body
experience
.
 

Across the street from where we parked is a large open park, filled with white tents and an assortment of food vendors and stands selling homemade kettle corn and bakery goods.  A (very bad) local rock band jams on a makeshift stage in one of the tents, which is filled with tables.  The people inside are eating, laughing, even dancing to the music.  One couple looks particularly drunk.  The booze flows freely here; there’s even a beer garden set up at the back of the park.

“Looks like there’s not much fun here for people under twenty-one,” Chase mutters as we cross the street.  “
Think they check
IDs in places like this?”

I slug his arm.  “That’s probably the one way in which they’re not so backward.”

“Yeah,” my brother snorts.  “Just our luck.”

We enter the park, strolling past the booths, assessing what’s for sale, stopping to buy a bag of piping-hot kettle corn.  It’s warm and sweet, sticky with sugar.  I push a large handful into my mouth.

Farther back, near the playground part of the park, a kids’ area is set up.  At one table, groups of ten-and-unders paint funny faces on small pumpkins and gourds.  At another table, there’s a coloring contest.  On the lawn behind
the swing set, an energetic woman runs a relay race that involves the putting on and taking off of Halloween costumes.