Lost Cause
Callie Sparks
Published by Callie Sparks, 2015.
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
LOST CAUSE
First edition. September 25, 2015.
Copyright © 2015 Callie Sparks.
Written by Callie Sparks.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Lost Cause
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 Eighteen
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
About the Author
“It doesn’t matter how many times I tell them I’m fine. They don’t believe anyone can possibly go through what I’ve gone through and come out okay. And the more they tell me that, the more I’m starting to think they’re right.”
Shy, awkward Noah Templeton will always be the stuff of water cooler gossip now. Ever since that fateful day when he was thirteen, when he disappeared without a trace. Now, it’s seven years later, and he’s back from his horrific ordeal, trying to pick up the pieces in a world where everyone’s moved on without him.
They whisper that he’s a lost cause. But things haven’t exactly been easy for Noah’s best friend, Arianna Baker, either. Plagued by a failed relationship, career uncertainty, and memories of past trauma, she can’t help but think that none of it would’ve happened if Noah had been by her side.
The only thing that seems clear is that Noah and Ari can’t be apart again. But will they finally find themselves, or destroy each other in the process?
Chapter One
Tonight we are happy to have Noah Templeton as our guest.
Thank you for having me.
So let’s get right into it. What was your childhood like . . . before?
Not idyllic, but normal. Like any kid’s. I did all the same things. Tubing down the Delaware, fishing. I was just like any other kid.
You lived in . . .
New Jersey. On the river. At first Trenton, but we moved to a house in Raven Rock when I was ten. My mother died when I was six, and it wasn’t any secret she’d been the one who wanted kids, not him. I’m not being mean when I say he was a pretty clueless kind of dad, spent a lot of time in his own head. No common sense whatsoever—he’d have agreed with me. If anyone needed a wife, it was him. So when I was ten, he remarried.
Annie Savage, right? Former Miss Maryland and professional model?
Yeah.
#
The Noah Templeton I know is not that tabloid headline. He’s not the man who sat down with Dinah Seaver for an in-depth interview, broadcast nationally on primetime television. He’s not the sob story so many of them whispered about in the grocery line.
Noah is my best friend.
Or was.
I’m not sure now.
It’s been seven years.
Those years have treated us differently. I’m more or less the same. Well, not the same. A little thing called puberty kicked in at the last minute, around the time I was thinking I’d be called Flatty McFlatterson forever. I grew out of the tomboyish need to squish my feet in river mud every summer and stopped hating all things frilly, even if I’ll never understand the inner workings of a mascara wand. Most other things are the same. I have the same doting parents, the same pink bedroom in the ancient house on the hill overlooking the Delaware, the same picture-postcard life.
Noah, though?
His postcard went up in flames right after his thirteenth birthday.
I’m sitting in that pink bedroom of mine when the authorities bring him home. It’s early June after my sophomore year in college, and already hot as hell. Unlike his home, which is younger than I am, my house is 150 years old and lacks air conditioning, so I can hear the commotion on our normally quiet street out the gaping window. I know the old Noah would’ve hated the fanfare. The police escort. The news crews on the front lawn. Random townspeople holding “We’re pulling for you, Noah!” signs and cheering like it’s a freaking tickertape parade. He’d always place me in front of him, to deflect the attention, because he knew I could deal with it better than he could.
But this time, I’m fine just where I am.
“Honey, oh look,” my mother calls up to me from the living room. “A limo! That could be him.”
My gut clenches. Or maybe it’s the president, out for a joyride? She thinks I’m watching the blow-by-blow from my window. After all, it is the most action this side of the Delaware has seen since a bunch of Hessians got their asses handed to them in the Revolutionary War. But I can’t see a thing under the pillow I’ve crammed over my head, which is just fine by me. “Uh-huh,” I mumble. “Mom, if you’re that into it, why don’t you go over?”
The floorboards creak in the doorway. “Didn’t you want to go?” she asks gently.
I press the pillow against my nostrils, until I can’t breathe in, wondering if I have the discipline to keep it that way.
“But you two were such good friends,” she coaxes.
I moan as my phone dings. Again. Gabe, the jerk-off boyfriend. Ex-boyfriend, now. It’ll be a cold day in hell before I ever . . .
“And you’ve been acting so strange, too. Did you and Gabe have a fight?”
“Yes. Yes mom,” I mumble. “We broke up. Okay? So I just want to . . . mope. I’m not in the mood for seeing Noah, or any male of our species, right now. Sorry.”
“All right.” Her voice wavers. Even she doesn’t believe me, because it doesn’t take much to know that Gabe and Noah may be male, but that’s where their similarities end. A moment of silence. I wait for the floorboards to relax, signaling her departure, but they don’t. “Well, I’m going to invite him over for dinner. He must—“
I throw the pillow off my head. “Oh, mom. Don’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because we broke up!” I growl.
“I was talking about Noah.”
I want to throw up. That’s even worse. “No. Mom. No.” I can think of nothing more awkward than sitting down with him for mom’s meatloaf, pretending everything in the neighborhood is just hunky dory. We had Mr. Templeton over, twice, back when it first happened. Back when there was still the hope that Noah would return. My mother would bring out the good china and make a fuss. I shiver, thinking how awkward it was, trying to be bright and cheerful when the poor man’s entire life was circling the drain. But then he was arrested, and in the years after his arrest, Mr. Templeton turned into a virtual hermit, turning down any invitations or offers for neighborly help before his eventual suicide. So just inviting Noah over to shoot the breeze and scarf down meatloaf, after all this time and everything that’s happened to his family, a family that once looked just as perfect as ours? No. Just no.
She says, “He’s going to think you haven’t thought of him.” Then she shrugs and ambles down the hallway.
On the contrary, in the last few months, I’ve thought about him enough to go insane. I’d thought about writing him when the news broke earlier this
year that he’d been found. Or flying out to visit him, meeting him at LAX with one of those name placards on my chest in case he didn’t recognize me. I’d asked my parents what I should do. My parents gave me one of their diplomatic bullshit answers: “Do what feels right, honey.”
So I did that. I did nothing. Nothing felt right.
Noah Templeton was supposed to be dead, like his dad and sister. They’d closed the missing persons file on him years ago. I cried buckets, every time I saw a steam engine or a life-size Darth Vader cut-out advertising Star Wars underwear for boys at Target or I ate his favorite Kraft Macaroni and Cheese. And then, little by little, I moved on.
Isn’t that what I was supposed to do?
#
Fate can be a bitch sometimes.
That’s what my best friend, Claire, said to me before school let out before fifth grade. She was going to Costa Rica with her family, as I grumbled I’d be home. Alone, all summer.
So yeah. It was a bitch. To me, at least.
Truth be told, I thought fate was turning even bitchier that summer, when construction crews cleared out the area behind my house. Several trucks, the color of ballpark mustard, rumbled down Peasant Street. Their heavy tires pounded the road, spewing pebbles and dried leaves into the humid air. A thick cloud of charcoal-colored dirt, the kind that makes you choke just looking at it, billowed in their wake. The trucks congregated in the forest right outside my bedroom window in the earliest hours of the morning, evaporating the idea of sleeping in.
Lucky me. Happy Summer Vacation, Fate, you ol’ bitch.
Our ancient house needed that shade, had lived all its 150 years with those trees as its friends, so its normal creaks and moans seemed louder and more mournful. The window of my bedroom gaped open all summer, covered by a dirty screen. That screen kept the insects out, but it did little good fending off the clatter of a machine’s claw ripping into the forest. Sometimes I’d tunnel under the covers or jam pillows against my ears. Eventually, I’d end up fully awake, watching the shadows of dancing leaves on the walls. Two weeks later, all the trees were gone, my room baked in the hot sun, even at seven in the morning.
I could only assume Costa Rica was a lot better.
Nevertheless, excitement and curiosity welled inside me early July, when I fixed my thick-lensed glasses over my eyes and peered at the progress. The newly cleared land was bustling with activity. A flatbed of wheat-colored logs was in the process of being unloaded by a crew of ten or twelve husky men. Two others were leaning over the hood of a mud-splattered, once-red pickup, examining an intricate set of floor plans. Occasionally, one would straighten and gesture toward the sky above an immense, deep cavity in the center of the clearing. I stared at the pit with great interest, hoping fate would grace me with an Olympic-sized swimming pool for my patience.
I pulled on my Old Navy swimsuit and my trusty pair of Nikes, which were encrusted in river mud. They were full of holes, and the treads were gone, but nothing else seemed so comfortable, so I wore them everywhere. I’d give my mother another wrinkle every time she saw me in them; she’d bought me a new pair two months ago, but they still had the tags on them. I also threw on a gossamer T-shirt that was bound to fall apart; it had been washed so many times that it molded perfectly to the outline of my body. Needless to say, Mom didn’t approve of that either. She eyed me like I was some despicable troll as I flew down the steps. Ever the imaginative crafter, she was making a plant-stand out of some Yuban coffee cans. She ripped a length of electrical tape from a roll and sighed deeply. “I could buy you a new shirt!”
“Nah, we don’t have the money. Fate’s a bitch,” I mumbled over my shoulder, and skipped out the door and down the ramp before she could scold me.
In the garage, I hitched a semi-inflated black tube over my shoulder, balancing it carefully as I mounted my bicycle. My father had bought me a pink Schwinn the previous fall, for my birthday. It was a twelve speeder; two gears more than any of my peers, which made me feel extra-cool, even if it was pink.
Pink. Blech. My parents insisted on painting my bedroom that and dressing me in it for the first five years of my life, which had effectively turned me against it. Could there be any more nauseating color?
Peasant Street wasn’t paved, and gray dust inevitably settled on my skin and burrowed in my nostrils. The bicycle’s tires kicked up loose gravel as I stood on the pedals and pushed furiously toward the river. Usually the street was rather quiet; we only had one other neighbor, who lived in a ranch house directly across from us. Mrs. Burns was a kind old lady with a thousand cats and a front yard full of life-size porcelain animals. She had an old boat of a car that never, ever left her driveway—a year ago, an oak tree began growing out of the hood and she’d had to enlist my help to pull it out. So traffic was usually sparse. Today, though, a bunch of pick-up trucks lined the road.
I weaved my way between them and noticed the enormous trailer on the property. It was white, with racing stripes on the sides. A small awning extended from one side, like a makeshift porch. Some rusty lawn furniture was set out, and I could see two platinum pigtails bobbing joyfully in the sunlight. A young girl was attached to them, and she was jumping about nearby, without much reason, deeply involved in her own make-believe game. The door to the trailer opened, and this kid emerged. He had a can of Dr. Pepper in his hand, and was looking pensively at the ground. He was wearing running shorts and white tube socks that stretched to his knees, each with a thick red stripe around the calf. His T-shirt was in only slightly better condition than my own. I nearly rode past, but stopped when he took notice of me.
“Hey, I’m Ari,” I announced, pedaling toward them.
“Noah,” he said quietly, and smiled a bit, sweeping a swirl of chocolate brown hair from his forehead. Despite a thick stripe on top, the sides of his hair were cut close to his pale scalp in a way that bared some uneven bald spots and made me think of shorn sheep. Not a Mohawk, exactly, more like a tragic mistake. There was also a strawberry birthmark on his cheek, and even though it was more a diamond than a teardrop, it reminded me of a sad clown. He pointed at the girl, who was sweetly endearing herself to a dandelion. “Dandelion girl over there is my sister, Sarah.”
I was skinny, but I had height. I was one of the taller kids in my class. This kid was probably a head shorter than me, and nothing but bones. Younger than me, I thought. “How old are you?”
“Ten and a half,” he said to my surprise.
“Hey, me too!” I said, but what I was already thinking was, We’re going to be the best of friends. Fate could be a bitch sometimes, but sometimes she was awfully sweet. “My birthday’s November twelfth. Yours?”
“I’ll be eleven August fourteen.”
Damn, I thought. He’s got me beat on that. “You might as well go on telling people you’re eleven cause you’re nearly there.” At least, I would’ve. “You live in that thing?” I asked, motioning to the trailer.
“For now,” he said. His voice was soft and tentative; I’d soon come to learn he never raised it. Not ever. “My dad is building a house here. He’s an architect.”
I couldn’t understand why his parents would want to build a house when they had such a fine trailer. In a trailer, you could go anywhere. I’d been begging my parents for one since kindergarten.
“Hey,” I said brightly. “We’re gonna be neighbors. I live over there.” I pointed over his shoulder. Only the eaves of my house were visible above his temporary home.
He whirled clumsily around to get a view of the house, and nearly toppled over. Once he regained his balance, he said, “Cool.”
“Where you from?” I asked him.
“Trenton,” he replied.
I blew a bubble with my Hubba Bubba that was so huge, it deflated over my nose and chin. I grinned proudly at my accomplishment as I picked up the pieces and deposited them back in my mouth; the look on the new kid’s face acknowledged it was pretty epic. “You ever go tubin’?”
He said “’Co
urse,” as is if it were an absurd question.
“Wanna go?” I offered.
“Sure,” he said, and plodded toward the rear of the trailer. He unhooked a dusty bicycle from the back. It was an old, unimpressive one with a banana seat, which was a giant taboo in fifth-grade culture. The streamers on the handlebars and the “Noah” license plate below the seat would have probably made him the butt of all jokes. We’d outgrown that stuff in second grade. I didn’t say anything, but had to wonder about my new best friend.
He pulled out a black tube, just like my own, from a box of gardening tools. It had a few holes that had been patched with duct tape, and a funky pattern of steel-gray crosses unfolded as he worked furiously at the bicycle pump. That pump got the best of the boy’s scrawny body; he wrestled and panted as he pushed and pulled the handle. When it looked like he might collapse, I finally took over. He reminded me of the classic cartoon gag, where a character tries to show his biceps but ends up with flab flapping on his underarm.
He watched me for a few minutes, blushing a bit, and then opened the door to the trailer. “I’m goin’ tubin’, okay?” he yelled, but even his yell was nothing that would turn heads.
A muffled voice came from within. “Don’t forget about your ear!”
“Yeah, I know,” he grumbled. He looked at me, seeming embarrassed. “One sec. I gotta brush my teeth, too.”
As I watched him disappear, I realized that he was the first ten-year-old I knew who voluntarily brushed his teeth. Sarah was playing hopscotch without a hopscotch board, and without a word, she amused me until her brother’s return.
“I’m ready,” he said. I could detect the faint smell of peppermint.
As he tried to straddle his bicycle, Sarah finally became aware of the outside world. She looked at him hopefully. “Can I come too?”
Noah smiled at her, dropped the kickstand on his bike, and strode over to a lawn chair. He picked up a smiling Cabbage Patch Kid, smoothed the dress gently, and placed it in his sister’s arms. “Celestia Althea doesn’t know how to swim, Sarah. She needs you to take care of her. Will you do that?” he coaxed, in a voice that sounded sincere, not the least bit condescending.
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