Follow Me Home Read online

  Follow Me Home

  by Monica Goulet

  Published by Astraea Press

  www.astraeapress.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation.

  FOLLOW ME HOME

  Copyright © 2014 MONICA GOULET

  ISBN 978-1-62135-342-3

  Cover Art Designed by AM Designs Studio

  To Pierre, for being my home wherever we are.

  Chapter One

  For the first time in almost a year, I feel safe. My sandals slap against the uneven sidewalk, and I wave back at the old man driving by in a green pick-up truck. His toothless grin should scare the crap out of me, but something about this place makes it okay. I’ll even forgive its lack of a real downtown. I went in search of one of those quaint main streets with specialty coffee shops and expensive clothing stores, and all I found were a bunch of empty buildings for lease and a no-name pizza place. So much for small town charm.

  I turn the corner to my house and skid to a halt. The edge of my sandal catches in a crack, and I lurch forward, scraping my palms against the cement. There’s a leg dangling out my bedroom window as if it’s not attached to a body. It reminds me of a cricket I caught when I was eight. I’d accidentally ripped its leg off trying to make it dance. I shudder and pick myself up, my palms burning.

  I glance at the driveway. Mom and Dad’s cars aren’t there.

  The person in the window struggles to squeeze his way out. Blue jeans and a ratty running shoe. Painter, maybe? Repair person? But there’s no work van in sight.

  The rest of the body lowers from the window. I suck in a breath and duck behind a parked car just as he jumps.

  Five, four, three, two, one. I pop my head up just enough to see over the hood.

  He’s crouched on the ground, so I creep up a little higher and let out a breath. He’s tying his shoe? What kind of thief would stop to tie his shoe, let alone come out empty handed?

  Anger rises in my chest and I clench my fists. What does this guy think he’s doing? I pop up from behind the car without thinking. “You could have used the door, you know!”

  My mouth snaps shut as soon as the words are out. What am I doing? For all I know this guy could have a gun or something. I almost duck behind the car again when he looks up, but he turns away again just as quickly as if I never said a thing. He just finishes tying his shoe and shakes his head to get the hair out of his eyes.

  I finally catch a glimpse of his face. He’s young – my age maybe. Too young to be someone my parents hired. He heads toward the street, and I glance up at the open window again.

  Something doesn’t seem right.

  “Hey!” I yell. “Wait!” Against my better judgment, I start after him, but he still doesn’t turn around. My hand closes around the cell phone in my pocket. The police. I should call the police. I fumble with my phone, and it clatters onto the sidewalk.

  The guy looks back.

  His eyes lock onto mine, and I freeze. I stare back, expecting to see fear or guilt – anything other than what I see.

  Sadness. It pours into me from his eyes and touches every nerve in my body. Still, he doesn’t run. He just stares at me until I can’t take it anymore, and I dive behind a tree. My breathing slows. I count to ten before poking my head around the tree again. He’s already a block away. I stare at his back, frozen in place. From here, he looks harmless. Blue hoodie, jeans, running shoes. He’s not even running away.

  My curtain blows against the open window in the second story. In and out. In and out. The screen had been missing when we moved in last week. When I spin around again, I catch the last blur of a blue hoodie disappearing around a corner.

  My cell phone is in pieces. I scoop them up and shove the battery back in. Still works. My fingers hover over nine-one-one. But I keep seeing the way he looked at me. The sadness. I shove the phone back into my pocket.

  The front door is locked like I left it. I expect to find chairs overturned, vases broken, something, but everything is normal. The boxes we haven’t unpacked yet are still piled in the living room. The spare set of keys for my dad’s car still hangs on one of the pegs by the front door proclaiming “Home Sweet Home” above them – a gift from the previous owners who’d screwed it so far into the wall my dad couldn’t get it off without taking a chunk of the drywall with it. He hung it back up until he could get around to fixing it. Which, for my dad, could be a while. I kind of like it anyway.

  I lock the door behind me and tiptoe through the house. We’ve only been here a couple days so it’s still a little foreign to me. I can’t walk through the house blindfolded like I could have done at my old house in Tulsa.

  What did that guy want? I glance out the window to make sure he’s not doubling back. Maybe I misread the sadness. Maybe it was fear after all.

  Then an awful thought rises in my chest. What if he had friends with him? My eyes search the room, and finally land on the fire poker sticking out of a box marked “living room.” I grab it and make my way to the second floor.

  The stairs squeak under my weight even though I take each step as carefully as I can. My stomach is so queasy, I think I might lose my lunch if some thug does jump out at me. I quickly check my parents’ room, bathroom and guest room, holding my breath when I check the closets and under the beds. All clear. I head for my bedroom.

  I nudge the door open, my heart beating double-time. But everything is as I left it, aside from the open window and the breeze that hits my face, sending a chill up my back. And the white curtain, blowing in and out like a ghost.

  I slam the window closed and lock it. The house is silent. My bed is surrounded by boxes, and I kick some out of the way and sink down on the mattress. If we got robbed in the first week of moving here, we’d be moving back to Tulsa before I even have a chance to start over. But nothing seems to be gone. Maybe he just got the wrong house or something.

  I run my still-shaky fingers over the nail holes in the wall on my way down the stairs. My parents will take forever to pick out which pictures to hang there. Our house in Tulsa was brand new when we moved in. I always thought I liked the idea that no one else had lived there before, but now I’m not so sure. I like passing the small chip in the wall by my new room and wondering how it got there. And that the house is already painted and isn’t all white like our old one had been until my parents decided it needed a paint job before they put it up for sale. I even like the bright yellow door and shutters my parents never would have chosen.

  My dad got the house at an auction for a good price. One of the perks of being a real estate agent. It’s the only reason he actually convinced my mom to come here when she got the job offer. The house even has a pool in the back, but it needs some serious repairs. Maybe it’ll be ready for pool parties next summer with the new friends I make here. If I make new friends.

  A car door slams outside, and I run to the window. My parents. I let out a breath and take a final scan of the house, weighing my options. Back in Tulsa, it would’ve been a no-brainer. I’d tell my parents. They’d call the police. But that was then. I’m not letting this guy jeopardize my one shot at a new beginning. Not until I know what he was doing here.

  “Hi honey! How was your day?” My mom pushes open the door, carrying a huge table lamp in front of her. I grab it before she walks into s
omething.

  “Good,” I say. “You actually got something?” They don’t agree on anything when it comes to décor, so they usually spend the whole day picking out completely opposite things and then end up not getting anything because they never find something they both like. We’ll probably go without a couch until my dad finally gives in and lets my mom get the couch she wants just so he has somewhere to sit.

  “Well, just lamps and a coffee table. We ordered a couch though.” She lowers her voice and glances over her shoulder at my dad, who’s still unloading the car. “Well, I ordered a couch. Your father didn’t like it, but he’ll come around by the time it comes.”

  I laugh, but it comes out shaky. “If you say so.”

  My dad walks in carrying another two lamps, and I take one from him.

  “Were you guys expecting anyone here today?” I ask.

  “Don’t think so,” my dad says, setting down his keys. “Why, did someone stop by? A neighbor with an apple pie to welcome us, maybe?” He glances around me to the kitchen, as if he’s actually expecting an apple pie to be sitting on the table.

  I smile. “No pies, Dad. Just thought I saw someone leaving when I got back from my walk. Probably a salesperson or something.”

  “You sure they weren’t carrying a pie? Or cookies, maybe?”

  “Nope. No cookies.” I pretend to check out one of the lamps. I open my mouth again, but no words come out. The guy’s eyes are still staring at me somehow, asking me not to tell. My dad disappears and comes back carrying a coffee table by himself. He looks like the poster guy for how not to lift something.

  “Need help?” I ask.

  “Nope. I got it.” He squeezes himself in, narrowly missing the doorway with the edge of the table.

  “How was your walk? Did you make any friends yet?” my mom asks. She sets one of the other lamps on a table and stands back to study it. “Hmm…not sure I like it anymore,” she says, turning it around. My dad shakes his head.

  “We just got here, Mom. School doesn’t start until Wednesday.”

  “I’m sure there are some neighbors your age around here. Maybe you could get a head start.”

  I shake my head behind her back, imitating my dad. I don’t see them out making friends with the neighbors. My mom was always worrying about my lack of social life back in Tulsa, too. Or at least she was last year, anyway. She’d suggest I invite someone over for dinner, and I’d say all my school friends were away for the weekend. Then I’d complain I was the only teenager who never got to travel, and the change of subject usually distracted her.

  It hadn’t started out that way – just the result of a bad chain of events I’d rather forget ever happened. Here, it will be different. I’ll bring a friend home for dinner and make my mother happy.

  “It looks fine, honey,” my dad says. He snips the price tag when her back is turned so she can’t take it back. He catches me watching, and I shoot him a halfhearted smile before slipping past them toward the door.

  “I’m going for another walk,” I say.

  My mom barely glances up from the lamp she’s staring down from different angles. “Be back for dinner.”

  Outside, the air is thick and humid, but it’s still easier to breathe than it was inside. I need to find that guy. He was in my house for a reason and if I’m not going to tell my parents, I at least need to find out why. Make sure we’re not about to be murdered in our sleep or something.

  I try to blink the image out of my head. The sun is hot even through the clouds – the kind of late August weather that makes it hard to forget school starts this week. I accidentally kick a pinecone onto the street and wince when a car drives by and crushes it. I don’t want to think about school, but I need a plan. I can’t blow it again.

  Not that I know how to avoid it. When someone sets out to ruin your life, there’s not a whole lot you can do to change the course. All I did in Tulsa was pick the wrong guy to have a crush on.

  My stomach turns, and I try to shake the memories out.

  When my parents told me we were moving, it was the happiest day of my life. I’m not about to let some random guy in my house screw this up.

  I turn the corner where I saw him disappear. He couldn’t have gotten far. Sherbrook is tiny compared to Tulsa. Everything about it is different than Tulsa – the friendly people, the fresh air, even the trees seem greener somehow. It’s hard to believe it’s just a few hours away, but it does give me a shred of hope that high school might be different here too.

  I keep walking until the laughter and shouts of boys drift down the sidewalk. The thump, thump of a ball hitting the pavement echoes under my feet. I slow down to a bridesmaid’s pace until I pass the line of trees and watch one of the boys take a shot at a dilapidated net on top of the garage.

  It’s not him. These boys both have lighter hair than he did – blond even. I pick up my pace until I’m past the driveway. A flash of orange catches the corner of my eye and I duck just in time for the ball to sail past me.

  Footsteps pound on the pavement, but my feet are glued to the sidewalk. The ball hits a tree and rolls back toward me, the black stripes blending in with the orange and making me dizzy.

  “Hey,” one of the guys says, scooping the ball off the ground a few feet in front of me.

  I blink, and he comes into focus. “Sorry,” I say. “I mean, hey.” What am I apologizing for? My cheeks burn, which only makes it worse.

  “Sorry I almost hit you,” he says. “Bad shot.”

  “No problem.” I give a limp wave and turn to cross the street again.

  “I’m Taylor,” he says to my back. “That’s my brother Mac back there.”

  I swallow and face him again. “Kelsey,” I say.

  “You go to the private school?”

  “Uh, no. I go to Sherbrook High. At least, I will.”

  Taylor bounces the basketball a few times, watching me. He towers over me by at least a foot. I stare somewhere above his eyes, trailing the thin sheen of sweat on his forehead. He pulls up the bottom of his shirt to wipe it off, and I look away.

  “You just moved here?” he asks.

  “Yeah. From Tulsa.” I stare at a crack in the sidewalk, my mom’s lecture about making friends ringing in my ear. “What grade are you in?”

  “Eleventh. Mac is in eighth.”

  “Me too. I mean, I’m in eleventh.” I finally meet his eyes. His easy smile spreads across his whole face. Out of habit, my arms cross over my chest and I have to force them back down. But now my arms hang awkwardly at my side.

  “We were just about to go in for a drink,” Taylor says. “Want anything?”

  I stare at him like he just asked if I wanted to join the circus. “Uhh…” I stammer. I can practically feel my mother pushing me toward him – giving me that look to be polite and accept his offer.

  I’m about to blurt out a yes when something catches my eye down the street. Someone else is walking toward us. A guy. I watch him even though Taylor’s still talking to me. He’s saying something about his mother making the best lemonade. I nod, but I’m hardly listening. The guy behind him is about two blocks away now. My mouth goes dry.

  It’s him.

  Holy crap. My eyes are glued down the street. “I have to go. Sorry!” I break into a run, and the guy turns a corner.

  Taylor shouts something after me, but I don’t look back.

  “Hey!” I yell, when I close the gap by a block. The guy walks faster and glances back. His eyes meet mine, and for the second time today, it stops me in my tracks. I wait for him to say something – anything, but before I can catch my breath, he’s already moving again.

  “Hey!” I yell again. “Wait!”

  But he doesn’t. He jogs through an intersection just as the light changes. When I get there, traffic is zooming past. I jab my finger at the walk button a dozen times, willing it to change. By the time it does, I’ve lost him.

  Chapter Two

  I used to love back-to-school shopping.
When the end of August rolled around my mom would drive me to Oklahoma City and we’d come back with enough bags to make my dad almost pass out. Sometimes we stored old bags in the trunk just so we could shove stuff in them and make it seem like we bought even more than we actually did. The look on my dad’s face was worth it every time.

  This year I said I’d go on my own. My mom probably wouldn’t have let it go so easily if they weren’t so busy with the house stuff.

  Turns out the mall in Sherbrook is only a few stores bunched together next to a department store, so I finish the whole trip in an hour and come out with nothing. I have to dart back in and grab a couple things just so my mom won’t bug me about it.

  I walk home quickly, glancing behind me every few minutes, half expecting him to be there, following me again, but there’s been no trace since yesterday.

  When I get home both of my parents’ cars are still gone from the driveway. Mom started her job today, and Dad’s trying to drum up new real estate business by going door to door and giving out those little magnet calendars with his headshot on the front.

  I check my window before I go inside. Shut like I left it.

  I toss my bags on a chair in the kitchen and open the fridge even though I know it’s mostly empty. I grab the lonely jar of dill pickles and sit cross-legged on a stool in the kitchen.

  Something creaks above me. I pause, mid-chew. Silence. Then, another creak. I glance at the ceiling. Silence again. I slip off the stool, trying not to make a sound.

  My eyes freeze on a can of pop in the living room.

  Orange Crush.

  I walk toward it slowly, like it’s going to explode or something. It’s not that our house is so clean no one would leave an empty can lying around accidentally. But no one in my family drinks Orange Crush. My parents don’t drink pop, period – unless it’s mixed with rum on a Friday night.

  I reach for the can and lift it up. Still a third full. And somewhat cool. There’s orange liquid around the opening that hasn’t dried up. I swirl the pop around a bit. Still fizzy. This definitely hasn’t been sitting around all day. An hour at most.