A Place in this World

♧A Place in This World♧

This book is dedicated to you. Yes, you.

By Eden Gorst

© Maple Leaf Writing Project 2015

Prologue ♧ 2105

My feet pound on the earth as I race across the grass. Thump. Thump. My heart beats. It’s a warm summer day, warmer than it has been for weeks. My mother and I have picked this day to have a picnic over on Cricket Street. I turn the corner and stumble. I lie there for a second, then see blood. I feel the inside of my mouth.

“Mother!” She comes running, her golden blond hair blowing in the soft breeze.

“What is it, Nessa?” She glances down, and a smile flashes across her face. “You’ve lost your first tooth!” I stare down in wonder at the tooth as I pick it up from the ground.

“Is the tooth fairy coming tonight, Mother?”

“Of course she is,” my mother laughs. “Let’s go. Wouldn’t want our lunch to get cold.”

We laugh and talk for what seems like ages that afternoon. We set up our lunch in the park and munch on sandwiches and fresh homemade lemonade. We head to the rusty swingset and I swing until my feet are touching the treetops and I think that this is what flying must feel like.

That night, I put my tooth under my pillow. I kiss my mother goodnight and dive under the blankets. I’m anxious, but I try to fall asleep. I count in my head, one, two...

Thud. I jolt awake. I glance at my clock. I’ve been asleep for 2 hours. I hear it again. Thud. I jump out of bed, clutching my stuffed rabbit to my chest. I tiptoe downstairs, praying for no creaks. I pause at the bottom of the stairs, barely breathing. Thud.

It has been ten years since my mother was taken from me. I still wonder if it was a dream. The details are fuzzy, but I can recall the face of her kidnapper: long and lean, with a jagged scar across his left cheek.

Chapter 1 ♤ 2115

“Come on, sweetie…” A mother gives a stern look to a small boy, dawdling in front of a dilapidated store window. The display is of a Christmas scene, long forgotten after months of spring. Nobody mentions that May is a tad late for Santa Clauses, or offers to take the display down. Nobody cares.

The rush of people seems to be going in a circle, it overwhelms me. I blink and try to concentrate. I must focus all my attention on the bread in the baker’s stand, this and nothing else. In my mind I calculate the amount of time I can take to grab some bread without getting caught.

Suddenly I feel a hand on my arm, pulling me backwards. I stifle a scream. Am I imagining things? No, the hand is very real, and I whip around to find a small boy. No, not small. At least my age. Everyone looks small when you’re me. Or six feet tall, like me.

“Who are you?” My mind snaps back to the present.

“I beg your pardon?” I try to come up with a good excuse. “Well...that’s none of your business, is it?” Dangit, Nessa. Real smooth. The boy, like me, doesn’t seem to be impressed.

“I saw you eyeing our bread! Do you know how long it takes to make a single loaf?”

“I was just...looking at it.” I need to start telling better lies.

“I’m not falling for that,” the boy says. “I’ve been in this business long enough to know a thief when I see one. It was the look in your eyes.” I consider pleading that my family was starving, to please take pity on me, but this boy doesn’t seem the type to fall prey to that old trick.

I push a lock of black hair away from my face, trying to keep my face as calm as possible, considering my overwhelming desire to scream. I try to talk to him, distract him long enough to possibly stop my impending doom.

“You’re in a business? Funny, I didn’t think businesses employed fifteen year olds.”

“I’m sixteen, actually. And from the look of it you aren’t exactly fifty.”

“Okay, okay. I probably shouldn’t have said that. So how did you come to be in this business?”

“You are avoiding the subject at hand.”

This kid is good. I realize then that no manner of trickery will work on him. So I decide to come right out and admit what I’ve been up to. If he calls the police, it will only be one more added to the eleven times I’ve been caught red-handed. If he doesn’t, well, all the better.

“Okay, so you got me. I was going to take the bread. Now what?” He pauses, as if thinking deeply.

“Do you have any money? Any at all?” I stare at him, taken by surprise. I’ve never been asked this.

“Well, no...what of it?”

“Here.” He reaches into a brown bag that he’s been carrying over his shoulder and pulls out...a loaf of bread. He hands it to me, but I don’t take it. I look him in the eye.

“Why did you do that?” I’m still looking at him, trying to find something in those deep brown eyes.

“Do what? I didn’t do anything. Never gave a poor girl bread in my life.”

“So you’re serious,” I say, not knowing what to think. “You still didn’t answer me. Why did you…”

“Please don’t tell anyone about this,” he cuts me off. “If my dad knew...just don’t go bragging, OK?”

“Who would I brag to? The sewer rats?” He laughs. It feels good to make someone laugh again.

“My name is Nessa. In case you ever want to know. Someday.” He smiles.

“My name’s Louis. Just in case.” Now it’s my turn to laugh.

“Well, in case you want to know, thank you. I mean, I forgot to say, thank you.”

“For what? I didn’t do anything, remember?”

Chapter 2 ♤

I wake up on the hard, gritty pavement of a typical New York City alley. I must have fallen asleep before I could find anywhere decent. I haven’t had to sleep on the cold hard ground for a couple of weeks, but things have been difficult. I’ve considered, in the darkest hours, turning myself in to the orphanage that took me away as a small child. I shudder at the thought. That has to be a last resort.

While I rub my eyes, I review my surroundings. A sewer, some graffiti-and a face. I fall back in shock and almost hit my head on a nearby garbage bin. But soon I recognize the clear blue eyes and the turnt-up nose of my new friend Louis.

“W-what are you doing here?” I stammer.

“A very polite way of saying good morning,” he smiles at me. “I came to check on you. Let’s face it, there aren’t very good living conditions in your part of town.” I sigh in relief.

“Sorry. You startled me there. You have a way of doing that.” He walks over and sits next to me.

“So, I never got a chance to talk to you,” he begins.

“Oh? I thought we had a very pleasant conversation.”

“You know what I mean, I mean what’s your story? Everyone has a story.”

“Okay…” I trail off. I hate telling people about my mother. It only brings memories, bad ones, and never leaves anyone feeling happier. But I feel a duty to this boy, considering what he’s already done for me, and as he pulls another loaf of bread from his bag I finally crack. “When I was only five years old, my mother was kidnapped,” I continue. “ I don’t know the name of the person who took her away, only that I hate him with a burning passion. I was sent to an orphanage in Brooklyn, and I hated it. I basically hated my life for a few years. Two years ago, when I was thirteen, I escaped. I didn’t know where I’d go from there, but I wanted OUT. I’ve been searching for my mother ever since. I don’t know where she is, where she was taken. I don’t even….I don’t even know if she’s alive. I don’t know a lot of things, I guess.” I shudder. Louis hesitates, then puts his arm around me, and we sit in silence for a moment. “Sorry,” I finally say. “I’m getting too worked up, I’m sorry.”

“You say that too much. Stop apologizing.”

“Fine. I’m not sorry,” I agreed. “Now you owe me an explanation. Why are you really here?”

“Just like I said. I came to help you,” he states. “Fifteen-year-olds shouldn’t be living in the streets of NYC. My father is a baker, so I’ve never gone hungry. I have at least some wealth to share.” It’s a sweet gesture, and I stop regretting my decision to tell him my mini life story.

An hour later, after we have talked and shared bread together, Louis gets up to leave. Gathering his bag, he suddenly looks up and smiles.

“I just remembered something! There’s a good hotel down the road that you can maybe stay in while you’re searching for your mother. It’s not too expensive,” he goes on, “and they serve little cheese-bread thingies! At least, they used to.”

“That would be amazing, but I don’t have any money. Period.”

“Oh, I would pay for it. Well, me and my dad.” Once again, Louis has surprised me with his insane generosity. One second he’s making sarcastic jokes, and the next he’s giving time and money to help me. ME. I suddenly get hit with a rush of guilt for never asking about his life.

“I can’t let you do that. I just CAN’T. I mean, you say it’s cheap….but who knows how long I’ll need to stay? What if I’m still searching for my mother in the next decade?”

“Exactly. You need this. You deserve this.” He smiles and shows the dimple in his left cheek. I hesitate. Then I almost break down with happiness at the realization of how much my life is about to change. “Thank you….thank you so much,” I choke. “I mean, okay.”

Dear Mrs. Bray,

During the course of our story-writing unit, I’ve learned a few things. Number one: PROCRASTINATION IS BAD. And I have an unfortunate habit of doing it. Second, is that I love writing. I don’t care whether my story wins first place or doesn’t even make the finals, I WROTE a story. Practically a book. And the thing is, I’m proud of it. I put together my 3 chapters for you because, though the writing is rushed and there may be a few errors, I fell in love with my characters, and my setting of a dingy dystopian New York. I made a semi-world. And for a few moments I was part of that world. Writing is magical. So thank you, thank you for this experience, for letting me take this journey. It’s been a fantastic ride.

Your Young Author

Dear Louis,

I’ve gone to find my mother. I hope you can forgive me, but I’m not the kind of girl who can stand back and do her own thing when there’s a mystery to get in the thick of. I’m eternally grateful for all you’ve done for me, and I’ll always remember your kindness. Until we meet again,

Nessa

I put the note down on the hotel counter and sigh. I guess I should be sad that this wonderful girl has fled from my life. But I hesitate on the last words. Until we meet again. I don’t know if this is what she meant, what she would want, but I know I’m not the kind of boy who can stand back and do his own thing when there’s a mystery to get in the thick of. And I know in that moment that I’m going to go after her.