Nowhere Girl (Foundlings Book 1)

by Fiona Keane

“Good afternoon, everyone,” Mrs. Calvin announced as she approached the front of the room.

  Class was beginning, but…some seats were still empty. I mindlessly chewed the cap of my pen, waiting for the final students to enter, but there wasn’t even a knock on the door once Mrs. Calvin began speaking. I didn’t understand the flutter tickling my ribs as I glanced toward the empty corner of seats. Something was missing, something wasn’t right. Why did I care that someone was absent?

  I found my bike the instant we were dismissed, hoping it would have grown wings so I could have flown home. As I was stuffing my cable lock into the small basket attached to the front of my bike, Michelle’s painted toes wiggled at my side.

  “Hi.” She waved. “I know you’re heading out, but I wanted to check up on you.”

  “Check up on me?”

  “Well…” I felt sorry for the blush spreading along her tanned cheeks. “I didn’t mean anything by it. I just wanted to see how you’re doing by day three. Maybe you had questions or needed to talk or something. We got kind of carried away at lunch.”

  “Sure,” I sighed, swallowing my desire to recharge and be in isolation. “I’d love to talk, Michelle. I only have a few minutes, though. I need to get home for my aunt.”

  “I’ll walk with you.” She smiled as I grasped the handlebars on my bike. “So about the beach…I don’t want Luke to pressure you. Liv told me he was bugging you about it again.”

  She was talking to me like I was too fragile, but her condescension wasn’t intended. I could tell by the genuine, yet intrusive, effort in her smile.

  “It’s fine,” I assured her.

  “He’s just…Luke. He drives me nuts,” she divulged. “We aren’t even going to the same school in the fall. I don’t know what I’m going to do. It’s like I’m starting to freak out and it isn’t even here yet. You know?” Not really.

  “Sounds hard.” I attempted my best sympathetic tone. “I’m really sorry. He seems like a nice guy.”

  “He is. Those other guys though…” she began laughing. “Like Mark and Jamie…and Owen. Blah!”

  “What’s wrong with them?” I probed, hinting at a smile in my voice. “Mark, I get. He doesn’t have a girlfriend, does he? I worry for her.”

  “Who knows? I hope not,” she agreed. “I think Owen and Olivia like each other. Don’t tell her I said anything.”

  Michelle grabbed my wrist, embarrassed at letting Olivia’s secret slip. She continued rambling as we walked and I reassured her with my silence.

  “And Jamie…well, nobody dates Jameson Burke. Or at least Jameson Burke doesn’t date anyone.” The spite oozed with her words. “But whatever…so your aunt, huh? What’s she like?”

  “A delightful woman stuck between an aging hippy and socialite,” I grumbled with a laugh. “I guess she’s okay.”

  Michelle giggled, probably understanding the odd character I portrayed Jules to be. She asked me more about Jules—where the cottage was, if she had other kids, and Michelle even knew who Simon was just by the mention of his name. I worried about telling anyone of him and basic things about Jules, but it slipped. However, my thoughts were still on Michelle’s comment about Jameson, but I wasn’t supposed to care. I’d known him three days—two of which he’d been absent. Michelle fixed her ponytail once we stopped at the bike path behind school.

  “So,” she said with a hair-tie pressed between her lips as she pulled the mounds of brown hair tightly against her head. “I hope you have a good ride home. I’ll see you tomorrow. Thanks for chatting.”

  “Sure.”

  It was sort of an abrupt end to our conversation, but I preferred that to the notion of extended awkwardness and small talk. Once Michelle had turned around to head toward the parking lot, I hopped on my bike and rode home. Simon’s Saab was parked outside, snuggly pulled against the curb. I readied myself for the parental intrusion into my life as I entered the screened porch, deeply inhaling the calming aroma of Jules’s lavender. I thought back to Olivia and Mr. Fitzgerald cramming into the same space earlier that morning. I could hear Simon’s raspy voice bellowing with laughter before entering the house. My footsteps were timid, hoping to sneak by them as they spoke in the tiny living room.

  “Sophia, my darling,” Simon called from the sofa, his left arm wrapped around Jules’s waist as she sat comfortably against his lap, “how was your day?”

  “Stupid question,” I mumbled with closed teeth, forcing a fake smile. “It was great, Simon. How was yours? Make some more millions?”

  “Sophia!” Jules snapped at me, spinning her head around quickly with widened eyes.

  “I’m sorry, Simon,” I exhaled, “C'était horrible. Ma mère me manque et je veux aller au sommeil.”

  Jules’s eyes lowered to a normal, more affectionate expression—and proud of my translation, I’m sure. She climbed from Simon’s lap and came toward me, pulling me into a tight embrace.

  Her chin rested against the top of my head as she whispered into the cloud above me, “Vous êtes si belle, ma chérie. Votre coeur va guérir. Je promets.”

  “Oui,” I replied, returning her hug.

  I welcomed her embrace—I even craved it, but that’s when my eyes filled, pouring over my lashes with unrelenting sobs. Simon stood from the couch, placing his wine glass on the table, and approached Jules and me. His arms wrapped around us from behind me, pushing me into a tighter hug that calmed my lungs and slowed the tears.

  “Sophia, Sophia, Sophia,” Jules sang, “Simon made dinner. We’re having Esteban and Matilda over. Would you care to join us?”

  I shook my head in reply once Simon released his affection, mirroring Jules’s posture before me.

  “Your mother,” Simon said, “is still a beautiful woman. She lives in you, Sophia.”

  “Thanks, Simon.”

  I watched Jules hold her palm to his cheek as she melted over his attempt to coddle me. I left their company, grateful to sit alone in my bedroom. Throwing my messenger bag at the foot of my bed, I folded myself into the mattress, staring at the ceiling.

  Only three days and Michelle had gotten under my skin. Nobody dates Jameson Burke. Well…fine.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  DAY FOUR

  By the fourth day of school, I had to admit to myself that I was beginning to feel…okay…I guess. I was preoccupied by the exhaustion of socializing with Olivia and Michelle, dreading my meeting with Mr. Fitzgerald on Friday, and…I miss her.

  I avoided eye contact through the halls, purposefully going from point A to point B without intentions of socializing. Yet, somehow, they still managed to find me. It was like my once-secluded bubble of introversion had been tampered with, eliminating all possibility of wandering around invisibly.

  I walked into the guidance office before lunch, hoping to skip small talk with Luke, Michelle, and Olivia. Mr. Fitzgerald was leaning against the counter near a secretary, seemingly enthralled in a profuse stack of papers. His dark gray suit was in stark contrast to the shorts and tank-tops lingering in the office as students waited their turn for a meeting.

  “Sophia.” He smiled at me, glancing up from his papers. “I was just reading about a new research study on the impacts of poverty on a child’s future anxiety.”

  “Don’t need to worry about that here,” I muttered dryly.

  “Touché.” He laughed. “What can I do for you?”

  I studied the other students, preoccupied with their smartphones or tablets, ignoring my conversation with Mr. Fitzgerald.

  “I can’t go to lunch today,” I confessed, even surprising myself at my blunt honesty. “But I don’t want to talk either. I’m sorry. I just…”

  Mr. Fitzgerald placed the papers down and defensively raised his hands, continuing to smile at me.

  “Hey. No pressure. You can go in my office until the bell rings. I won’t be in there until then anyway. We’re still on for tomorrow? Seventh period?”

  “Mmhmm,” I nodded, but then I thought of seventh period
and started to…never mind. “Thanks, Mr. Fitzgerald.”

  His paternal smile lingered while he adjusted his glasses and returned to his reading. I sunk into the couch against the back wall of his office and anxiously fidgeted with the thin rose gold band on my right index finger, waiting for my forty-five minute lunch period to end. I took an apple and granola bar from my bag and ate in silence. It was delightful.

  Olivia wasn’t waiting at the door of our sixth period class. Instead, I saw her sitting between a group of boys, deep in animated conversation. I slunk in, hoping she would read my mind and communicate nonverbally.

  “Hey, Sophia,” she called out, waving me toward her. “I missed you at lunch. Where’d you run off to?”

  “I wasn’t feeling well.”

  Better to lie than fill her in on my escape. I smiled and pretended to enjoy participating in her exchange with the group of boys. I spent the entire class stuck in a daydream—anxious of the next period, desperate to go home, missing my mom…

  ***

  I nearly made it around the corner without being seen. My attempt at stealth failed and my heart began fluttering against my ribs when I realized that I walked right into Jameson. My face planted itself against his chest and I sort of didn’t want to move, afraid the blush on my face would forever become “my story.” His laughter was gentle, not intimidating or at my expense, as his hands guided my shoulders away from him.

  “Look where you’re going, Soph,” he teased.

  “I…” My lungs tightened.

  “I know I’m a pushover, but really…” He eased my mood. “How’ve you been?”

  He was still holding my shoulders.

  “Where were you this week?”

  Jameson’s hands returned to his sides, leaving my shoulders feeling a strange sensation of cold.

  “Not here.” His lips twisted into a teasing grin as he ran a hand through his mop of brown hair. “Did I miss something?”

  “I thought you said Mark was harmless,” I told him, faking irritation at this betrayal. My breathing was steady. My panic wasn’t there. We began heading in the direction of our last class.

  “He is. Why?”

  “He hit on me during Mrs. Calvin’s discussion of Beowulf on Tuesday.”

  Jameson burst out laughing. It was such an earnest, intoxicating hum.

  “What’s so funny?”

  I couldn’t help but slap Jameson’s arm as he walked at my side, the warm rumble of his laughter enveloping the hallway. The contact felt…good…but I caught myself. I can’t make friends. Especially with Jameson Burke. Jameson clenched his side, pretending to hold the fictitious injury.

  “Ow,” he moaned. “Hit Mark, not me.”

  “Next time,” I warned. “So where were you this week?”

  Why was conversation with him becoming so intriguing…so easy? I bit my lip, reminding myself to slow down and steady the thoughts pouring into my mind.

  “That’s part of my story,” he sighed. “And I already told you…it goes both ways, dear.”

  “Thus the mystery continues.”

  “Alas, it does.”

  “Too bad.” I smiled spontaneously, unable to stop myself. It made my stomach knot.

  “Is it?”

  “Sophia!” Michelle bounded toward me in the hall, clinging on to my hands.

  She studied Jameson quizzically before he winked at her and walked ahead of us into the classroom.

  “What did he have to say?” she cooed as she latched on to my arm at the elbow, following Jameson’s wake.

  “Nothing.”

  “Listen,” she continued, beginning many of her statements with that directive, “I wanted to know if you want to come for a soda with Liv and me after school today.”

  She held on to me, linking our arms, as we walked down the hallway toward seventh period. I was three classrooms away from British Literature, the idea of Jameson’s attendance somewhat distracting me.

  “That sounds really nice, but I’m having company over for dinner and need to help cook.”

  “Bummer,” she pouted, stopping with me in the doorway of my classroom. “Here’s my number. Text me or something if you change your mind.”

  She handed me a tiny note with her cell phone number, smiling as she began looking into my classroom. Her eyes locked with Jameson, who was in his usual seat, entertained by Mark’s antics.

  “Loser.” She stuck her tongue out at him, forcing his enigmatic grin to unfold along his face. She blew me a kiss and turned around to walk toward her final class of the day.

  Jameson was still looking at the doorway as I entered, which puzzled me. Do I sit by him? Do I sit in this perfectly empty seat four rows away, in the back? Yes—four rows away. I dropped my bag on the floor, slinking into the seat. My eyes focused on Mrs. Calvin, hoping she wouldn’t call on me to respond out loud. I had four more weeks and needed to implement some serious avoidance techniques.

  “Hi.” The guy in front of me turned around. “I’m Derek. You’re Sophia, right? We have French together.”

  “Hi.” I was grumbling on the inside, irritated my bubble of introversion had been interrupted. “Yep. Nice to meet you.”

  He smiled and turned around. He must have read my mind. The final students began trickling into the classroom, filling the empty seats. I glanced around, feeling the heat of stares, noticing both Jameson and Mark were watching me. He must have seen my blush because as Jameson turned his head around to study the surface of his desk, his lips pulled into a smirk. It was a beautiful pull against his lips that he must have used as a deadly weapon.

  “So Calvin usually lets us use our notes on assignments and stuff.” Derek turned around again quickly, tearing my locked attention from the other side of the room. “Do you want to take a look at my stuff over the weekend so you’re up to date with everything for the paper due next week?”

  “P-Paper?”

  “The essay she assigned…you weren’t here last week, duh.” He flushed with embarrassment. “We need to summarize the story and compare it to a theme in our own life. Ten page minimum.”

  “Yikes,” I sighed. “Sounds brutal.”

  “Sure will be without notes,” he teased. “I’ll let you have my notebook tomorrow.”

  “Thank you,” I could feel my cheeks tickle, and not just from the burn they felt from the other side of the room, “Derek.”

  He nodded and returned his attention to Mrs. Calvin. My subconscious moaned—another interested person. When would this “new girl” stuff just cease to interest people? Once Mrs. Calvin dismissed us, I flew out of the building without looking back. I almost broke a flip-flop, but everything was worth the silence I craved once I mounted my bike. I didn’t wait to check out with Olivia and Michelle, or to observe their friends…I needed to go home.

  I lied to Michelle about my reason for coming home and avoiding socializing. The only person I would be cooking for tonight was myself and I knew it the moment I locked the front door behind me. I slipped into the kitchen for some tea and noticed a note from Jules on the island.

  Ma chère. Again, I will be at Simon’s this evening. He is having some friends over and asked me to attend. Surely you’ll be fine and you can call me if you aren’t okay. Remember, if you wake in the night, count to ten and think of your happy spot. The beach, the mountains, the rain…imagine you’re there. And ma chère, already you have filled our home with love. XO, Jules

  I appreciated her reminder of how to cope when my impending nightmare and panic attack viciously announced their presence, but thinking of it only fueled its existence. So again, I was on my own in a tiny cottage on a soggy peninsula while Aunt Jules and her beau celebrated living lavishly. They would probably be downing bottles of expensive champagne and feeding each other snails and fish eggs before hanging out on a yacht. Or, maybe she really meant Simon was just having friends over.

  I crumpled her note and began boiling a pot of water for my tea. While the kettle began hissing int
o the air, I thought about how glad I was tomorrow was Friday…until I remembered I had to spend the last ninety minutes meeting with Mr. Fitzgerald, discussing the dark and morbid secrets nobody would ever know about this new girl.

  CHAPTER SIX

  DAY FIVE

  “The last time we met,” Mr. Fitzgerald clicked through screens on his laptop while softly addressing me, “we talked a lot about your mom.”

  My hands rested in a pile on my lap, my thumbs anxiously picking at each other. Staring at the dueling fingers, I began feeling the familiar tingle in my lungs. I was thinking about the nightmare I had last night and the loneliness that suffocated me when I woke, screaming out to an empty house. I could have called Jules, but I physically couldn’t—my body forbade me from moving, only allowing enough spasm for it to curl into a tight ball.

  I was in the house this time, listening to my mom sing in French. Her delicate hum painted a velvet blanket around me, invisible but entirely present as it cocooned me in her affection.

  “Sophia, ma ceour, please come down here,” she called from the kitchen.

  I could hear her beignets frying on the stovetop, imagining her frustration if the temperature increased the sizzle to a burning boil. I bounded down the stairs, my ten-year-old self eager to fly into her soft arms.

  “Mom,” I called out to her as I turned the corner into the kitchen. “Can I sprinkle the sugar?”

  She pulled me against her, one hand carrying a large metal spoon, and giggled.

  “Of course, ma ceour,” she sang, petting my hair with affection.

  I climbed on the small stool, two steps off the ground, and stretched into the cupboard. I saw the bag of sugar and reached, but it kept moving backward and out of my grasp. I lifted myself, reaching further into the vacant space.

  I turned to my mom, no longer hearing her voice, and fell from the stool. Something caught my fall. Something soft. Something that smelled of beignets and honey. Her golden hair turned brown with drying blood, but pools continued to flood around us, slowly pulling us into the floor.