Lost Boys (Slateview High 1)

Empty of memories.

What hadn’t been taken in the raid, Mom had to liquidate; it was the only way to get enough money to pay for Dad’s lawyer. Nearly everything to my father’s name was under lock and key. Mom had a small amount of money in savings, and that small amount, pooled together with what I had in my own…

Well. It was something. Meager, compared to what we were used to, but something. Just enough to pay for Dad’s legal team and a small two-bedroom rental across town.

We’d lost our house. Our home.

I knew some people had considered the massive mansion to be too big and ostentatious—even Dad’s wealthiest friends had exclaimed over the size and grandeur of our house—but to me, it’d always just been home.

The place where I’d spent my entire childhood. Where Ava had taught me to swim in the large pool house out back. Where I’d run down the stairs on Christmas morning, padding quietly on bare feet to make sure I didn’t wake my parents up too early.

It still hadn’t quite sunk in that this was real, although it’d been weeks since the day my father was arrested.

I was grateful it was summertime. I couldn’t imagine going to school with this… scandal? Is that what it was called when your father was arrested for felony fraud?

Whatever it was called, I was glad I didn’t have to face anyone at Highland Park Preparatory Academy with my father’s trial hanging over my family like a guillotine blade ready to fall across our necks. But with the amount of money we needed, with everything that the federal agents took, there was no way Mom would have been able to keep the house.

Ava had stayed as long as possible. She’d helped us where she could, but without a steady paycheck, she had to move on to find another job. It broke my heart. It broke hers. We had said a tearful goodbye a few days ago, and out of all the things that had my heart hurting, her leaving was the worst.

Now, I stood in the doorway of our empty home, waiting for Mom to come downstairs. We’d moved what we could to the rental house; Ava had dropped off the few keepsakes and heirlooms we’d been allowed to keep there as her last favor to our family. The crystal glassware that had been used at my parents’ wedding. The mahogany chair that’d belonged to my great-grandfather.

We couldn’t take everything, however. Beside me were two suitcases with as many clothes as I had managed to fit in them. Enough for an extended holiday, but hardly everything. Not even half. Clothes, I knew, were the least of my worries, but after giving up so much of our lives, they felt like a comfort. They felt familiar.

It was silly. But at the moment, I didn’t care.

“Mom?” I called up, hating how my voice echoed in the empty space. “We have to go.”

A few moments later, she came down the stairs, her own suitcase held in one fragile hand. I watched her in silence, feeling helpless and awkward.

We hadn’t spoken much since Dad’s arrest. Without the comings and goings of a busy social life—because no one in their right minds would

find themselves associating with us anymore, leaving us like a pair of castaways on a deserted island—without Dad, without Ava, the fact that Mom and I didn’t really… speak to each other a lot became even more apparent.

I didn’t know how to speak to her if I wasn’t asking which cocktail dress she’d prefer me in, if I wasn’t informing her that I had an event at school or had achieved some honor she’d be proud of. The emotional things, the things that came from the heart—my crushes on boys or fights with cruel girls at school or fears and doubts about the future—were things that I’d always spoken to Ava about. I would pour my heart out, and Ava would listen, hug me, and give me advice.

Reflexively, I turned, as if Ava would be standing at my side to reassure me that everything would be okay. No one was there. Nothing but cool air and the sinking feeling in my heart.

“Well… It’s time to go,” Mom said when she reached the bottom step. Her voice was heavy with weariness, reminding me that I wasn’t the only one having a hard time with all of this. Mom was probably devastated, even if she didn’t say it.

“Yeah,” I said, injecting as much optimism into my voice as possible. “It’s okay, Mom. I’m sure everything will work out soon. It’s all just a misunderstanding, right?”

My mother gave a nod and a noncommittal hum. And that was the end of the conversation.

We loaded our suitcases into the back of the car, one of the few things we’d managed to keep. It was an old-school Bentley and had belonged to my mother’s father. It was in her name; part of me wondered if the federal agents would have taken it if it’d been in my father’s name, just out of spite.

Mom slid into the front seat as I climbed into the passenger side. We sat there for a few moments before I realized the problem.

She was staring at the steering wheel and dashboard, lost.

Oh, God. When was the last time that she had driven herself anywhere? Before I was born, I was certain. I reached over and took her hand, her knuckles white with the way she gripped the keys. I guided her movement as she slid the key into the ignition, turned it, and put the car in reverse.

“See.” I smiled hopefully, even though it hurt my face. “Not so hard, right?”

My reassurance did nothing. Silently, my mother pulled us out of the driveway, and away from the only place I had ever called home.

Three

Our drive was eerily quiet, void of music or speaking. I kept my head leaned against the window, looking outside as plush, manicured lawns and sprawling Baltimore mansions gave way to cluttered suburbs and over-crowded ghettos.