Lost Boy

  Copyright © 2018 Shelley Hrdlitschka

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Hrdlitschka, Shelley, 1956–, author

  Lost boy / Shelley Hrdlitschka.

  Issued in print and electronic formats.

  ISBN 978-1-4598-1637-4 (softcover).—ISBN 978-1-4598-1638-1 (pdf).—ISBN 978-1-4598-1639-8 (epub)

  I. Title.

  PS8565.R44L67 2018 jC813'.54 C2017-907676-0

  C2017-907677-9

  First published in the United States, 2018

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2018933726

  Summary: In this work of fiction for young adults, a teenage boy is banished from his polygamous community after he is caught kissing a girl.

  Orca Book Publishers is dedicated to preserving the environment and has printed this book on Forest Stewardship Council® certified paper.

  Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

  Edited by Sara Cassidy

  Cover illustration by Marie Bergeron

  Author photo by Leslie Thomas

  ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  orcabook.com

  Orca Book Publishers is proud of the hard work our authors do and of the important stories they create. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it or did not check it out from a library provider, then the author has not received royalties for this book. The ebook you are reading is licensed for single use only and may not be copied, printed, resold or given away. If you are interested in using this book in a classroom setting, we have digital subscriptions that feature multi user, simultaneous access to our books that are easy for your students to read. For more information, please contact digital@orcabook.com.

  http://ivaluecanadianstories.ca/

  For my Maui Sistas—for nourishing me in so many ways.

  CONTENTS

  PART ONE

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  PART TWO

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  An Excerpt from “Sister Wife”

  Chapter One: Celeste

  PART

  ONE

  One

  “Jon! Noooo! Please don’t go.”

  Celeste’s cries follow me as I pick my way across the rocky beach along the river. Her desperation messes with my heart. I brush away tears, but I won’t look back. I cram my fists into my pockets and will myself to keep walking—away from her, away from my family, away from everything I’ve ever known.

  “Joonnnn!”

  I begged her to come with me, argued that we could escape together, but she just couldn’t do it.

  A river rock rolls under my foot, and my hands spring free from my pockets. I catch myself, but it’s too late—pain shoots up my leg. I’ve twisted my ankle. I can’t stop to tend it. The hesitation could be my undoing. I straighten my shoulders, clench my jaw and keep walking.

  The sound of the rushing river drowns out Celeste’s voice, but the taste of her lips on mine is still fresh, as is the full-body rush brought on by those kisses.

  The Prophet always told us boys to stay away from girls, to treat them as though they were poisonous snakes. If we’re ever worthy of being assigned a first wife, well then, those snakes miraculously turn into girls. But now that I know what a girl’s kisses taste like, what she feels like in my arms, there’s no going back. It’s no wonder he worked so hard to keep boys and girls apart. I’d gladly have taken Celeste to be my wife for “time and all eternity,” but that is not how the Prophet does things. He’s the one to choose.

  The stones have graduated to boulders. It’s becoming more difficult to trek downstream, but there’s only one unpaved road out of Unity, and it would create suspicion if anyone saw me walking there. I’ll stick to the river until it winds under the main road to Springdale.

  I’ve known for months that I’d eventually leave Unity. My struggles with the rules of our faith have made it impossible to stay. I just didn’t know that today would be the day.

  I finally reach the bridge that spans the river. Over my head, traffic whooshes past. I scramble up the bank, ignoring the stabs of pain in my ankle, and step onto the paved road that leads to Springdale.

  I could still be spotted by someone from Unity, but it’s unlikely. While Celeste and I met at the beach this morning, the rest of the community was at a memorial service. Everyone should still be at the church.

  I walk along the shoulder of the road. Cars and trucks rumble past, and the sun beats down on me. Will I really burn in hell for leaving the faith? I swallow hard. There’s no turning back now.

  The heat is becoming unbearable, and my ankle is throbbing hard. A truck roars up behind me. I turn and stick out my thumb. The truck driver flicks on his blinkers and pulls his rig over to the shoulder of the road. I limp up to the cab, haul myself onto the running board and open the door. A blast of cool, air-conditioned air hits my face.

  The driver checks me over. “Where are you headed, son?”

  The Prophet says that all outsiders—or gentiles, as we call them—are evil, but this guy doesn’t seem scary. He’s about my dad’s age and looks like he has spent a lot of time in the sun.

  “Springdale.”

  “Hop in.”

  He pulls the rig back onto the road and looks me over again. “Are you a polyg?” he asks, not unkindly.

  Polyg is a shortened version of polygamist. Only gentiles use it. On my rare trips into Springdale, teenagers have said it under their breath as they pass me on the sidewalk. My father told me to pay no attention. After all, we were the chosen ones, the only people who would go to heaven. At one time I’d felt smug, knowing that my family was special, even if we stood out because of our clothing and our large families. Dad has five wives and a large mob of children.

  “I was,” I tell the driver.

  His brow springs up. “Well now.”

  “Uh-huh.” I’m trying to get my head around what I’ve said. Was. If I’m leaving a faith community that practices polygamy, then I’m an apostate. Apostates are no better than filthy animals.

  “Then I guess you can lose some of the layers,” the driver says, glancing at my best go-to-church clothing.

  “I’m okay.”

  His face softens. He fiddles with a dial on the dashboard and turns up the air-conditioning. I undo the top button of my long-sleeved shirt and lean my head back on the seat.

  The driver turns up the volume on the radio. The music is unfamiliar. I listen closely, both appalled and intrigued by the lyrics:

  Don’t stop now

  Oh baby, oh baby

  Feel it

  Move it

  Rock it

  Oh, oh baby

  Don’t stop now

  We were only permitted to listen to spiritual music in Unity, but on those occasions when Jimmy showed up late at night for a visit, we boys would sneak off and sit in the cab of his pickup truck and listen to music he called rock or punk or pop. I liked
the music, but it’s all still new to me.

  “Boys like you, the ones who leave places like Unity, are called Lost Boys,” the driver says.

  “So I’ve heard.”

  I close my eyes and try to rest, but as the distance between this truck and Unity grows wider, the reality of what I’m doing sinks in. I remember Jimmy saying that, for him, escaping was like staring Satan in the face and telling him to go fuck himself. I was impressed at the time, but am I really that brave? Do I want to be just another Lost Boy?

  I think of Celeste, and a deep sorrow washes over me. I can still hear her pleading for me to stay, even though she knew it was impossible after we’d been found out.

  “You know anyone in Springdale?” the driver asks.

  I blink my eyes open. We’re passing warehouses and industrial parks, which means we’re getting close to town. I reach into my pocket for the slip of paper with Jimmy’s phone number on it. It’s there, as always, just in case. I used the number yesterday to call him for help with someone else. Taviana. I flatten the scrap on my knee.

  “Need a phone?” the driver asks, glancing at the number. He reaches for his mobile on the truck console.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  While I enter the number, the driver pulls the rig into an empty parking lot. The phone rings four times, then goes to messages. I hand the phone back. “My friend must be at work,” I say.

  “Well, the park is just down that street there,” the driver says, pointing. “Beside the river. It’s where all the young people hang out after school. Maybe you could meet some of them, figure out where you might find a place to stay.”

  “Thanks, sir. I’ll go straight there.”

  He smiles at that. “You seem like a nice kid. I wish you well.”

  I’m astonished at the kindness in the man’s eyes. So much for the Prophet’s lessons about gentiles. Jimmy always says the Prophet was lying, and now I’m seeing it for myself.

  I shoulder open the cab door and step to the ground, being careful not to land on my sore ankle. When I look back to say goodbye, the driver is taking his wallet from his pocket. He pulls out a bill. “Buy yourself a T-shirt and some shorts,” he says, handing it to me. “If there’s anything left over, you can get a burger.”

  I take the bill reluctantly and then look at the number in the corner. One hundred dollars! “Are you sure?”

  He nods. “I am. Just be sure to pay it forward when you’re back on your feet. Best of luck to you. It’s not going to be easy.”

  I wave as the man maneuvers his eighteen-wheeler back onto the road. He blows the horn twice.

  I study the crisp bill in my hand. I’ve never seen so much money, even though I’ve worked in construction for three years. Almost all the money I made was paid directly to the church or to my father.

  It’s a short walk to the park. Mothers minding their small children on the playground equipment eye me suspiciously. I decide to head to the river. There I sprawl under a massive weeping willow tree and listen to the rushing water and think about what I’ve done.

  Only two hours ago, I lay by this same river with Celeste in my arms. Now it’s possible that I’ll never see her again.

  It’s midafternoon, according to where the sun is. The truck driver thought I should talk to kids my age and figure out where to stay, but I know there’s not a chance they’ll talk to me. Surely he knew that. I’m a polyg, and gentiles are not known for being nice to polygs. My only hope is to contact Jimmy.

  I reach into my pocket to feel that the money is still there. My throat is parched, and I’m hungry. Food and water would be so good right now. They wouldn’t cost much either. But if I can’t get in touch with Jimmy, I may really need the money later.

  Jimmy is my only connection outside of Unity. He was the one who talked me into leaving. He convinced me that I had a choice, that I didn’t need to live the way my family does. For a long time I resisted, but more and more I’ve also begun to question the Prophet. Some of his teachings just don’t make sense.

  The sun’s glare is intense. I close my eyes. When I open them again, the sun has moved much farther to the west. I must have fallen asleep. Nearby, a guy is squatting beside the river. He’s wearing shorts. His torso is bare, and his shirt hangs from his back pocket. His skin is light brown. He stays crouched for five, ten minutes, hardly moving, creating something with the river rocks. Finally he stands and stretches. He has balanced a tower of stones in a way that looks impossible. They should just topple over.

  He starts working on something I recognize—an inuksuk, a figure of a human made from stones. That’s when I make the connection. He must be the same guy who has been building inuksuit near Unity. Celeste and I discovered the rock men—as we called them—on the beach and liked them so much that we began building our own. Soon there was a whole community of them.

  I stand and walk toward him. He turns when he hears the stones crunch under my feet.

  A friendly smile lights up his face. “You must be from Unity,” he says, taking in my long-sleeved shirt, pants and lace-up shoes. His comment isn’t derogatory, just curious.

  “Was,” I say for the second time that afternoon. “Not anymore.”

  He tips his head but doesn’t say anything else, just returns to building his inuksuk.

  “Are you from Springdale?” I ask.

  “My parents live here now, but I didn’t grow up here. I’m just staying with them until I figure out what to do next with my life.” He reaches for a rock. “What about you? Are you still in school?”

  “No. Construction. I don’t know what I’m going to do next either.”

  “There are so many options, aren’t there?”

  I can only shrug.

  “What do you like doing?” he asks.

  “I don’t know. Never given it much thought.”

  He adds a head to his inuksuk and stands back to admire his work. Just then a cell phone in his pocket pings. He pulls it out and looks at the screen. “Gotta go,” he says. He sticks out his hand. “I’m Craig, by the way. Maybe I’ll see you around.”

  “Jon,” I say, shaking his hand. “Yeah, maybe.”

  Craig begins to jog across the beach.

  “Craig!” I call to his back.

  “Yeah?” He swings around to look at me, still trotting backward.

  “May I make a quick call on your phone?”

  “Oh, sure.” He jogs back and hands it to me.

  I pull the slip of paper out of my pocket and press the numbers.

  Two

  “Oh. My. God. Jon!”

  The shock on her face makes me smile. “Hi, Taviana.”

  Taviana drops her book, jumps out of her chair, flies across the small room and nearly knocks me over as she throws her arms around me.

  I’m pleased with this warm welcome, but I don’t hug her back. Aside from my mom and my littlest sisters, Celeste is the only girl I’ve ever hugged, and hugging her was breaking all the rules.

  When Taviana finally lets me go, I notice a couple of guys standing behind her in the kitchen doorway. Matthew and Selig. I don’t know them well. We aren’t related, which is unusual when you come from Unity, but I know that Jimmy used to meet them late at night too. The way I heard it, Matthew was dropped off on the side of the highway by his mother and told never to return. Apparently he was caught wearing a short-sleeved shirt while doing construction work in the summer. It was the final transgression of many.

  Like me, Selig left voluntarily, and not long ago. Jimmy must have convinced him, too, that with his history of questioning the Prophet, it wasn’t likely he’d get assigned one wife, let alone three, which is how many you need to get into heaven. And if we weren’t going to heaven with the rest of them, what was the point in staying?

  “Hi,” I say to Matthew and Selig, giving a little wave.

  They both smile shyly.

  “Hello, Jon.” A woman squeezes past Matthew and Selig and shakes my hand. “I’m Abigail. This i
s my home.”

  I nod, feeling incredibly awkward.

  “Jimmy’s told me about you.”

  Abigail looks exactly as I’d pictured her: stout, with a no-nonsense expression on a bulldog face. Her dark hair, streaked with gray, is pulled back into a thick braid that hangs to her waist. She once lived in Unity too, and she still hasn’t cut her hair, which is the custom of the women. But her knee-length pants and short-sleeved blouse definitely wouldn’t be worn in Unity.

  Jimmy answered my call from the river and immediately drove over to pick me up. He told me that Abigail was expecting me.

  “Have you had any dinner, Jon?” she asks now.

  I’m tempted to lie. It seems rude to arrive hungry, but before I can open my mouth, my stomach releases a loud rumble. I slap a hand to my middle and feel my face burn. The boys hoot with laughter.

  “Taviana, please scramble up some eggs for Jon. And boys,” she says to Matthew and Selig, “you get back to your homework. Jimmy, you can give Taviana a hand in the kitchen. I think the dishwasher needs unloading.”

  Jimmy meets my eyes and smiles. He warned me that the boys here help with the women’s chores.

  “I wish I’d known you were coming today,” Abigail says, settling herself into a rocking chair. “Taviana made us an amazing meal, but we ate every scrap of it. I would have saved you some. You don’t have a suitcase or a bag?”

  “No, I left kind of…suddenly.”

  “What happened?”

  There’s no reason to lie to this woman. She’s likely heard it all before. “I was caught with a girl. Her sister saw us together, and she’s the type who’d go straight to their father.”

  “You didn’t go back to say goodbye to your mother?”

  My mother. All day I’ve managed to block out thoughts of her. I can’t imagine never seeing her again. It was because of her—and Celeste, of course—that I stayed as long as I did.

  A lump swells in my throat. “Everyone was at a funeral when I left.” My voice is wobbly. “I wouldn’t have been able to speak to her alone.”

  “Who died?”