Moments From A Stolen Year

By Troy H. Gardner

Fifteen-year-old Haley built a comfortable life for herself. She's taken over her school's failing newspaper and learned to navigate her dad's armchair politics. All she wants to do is finish high school and make her absentee mom proud.

But when her rival steals her meal and dies from food poisoning, Haley must reexamine her life. With help from the strange boy next door, a popular theater kid, and the work of a reclusive author, Haley embarks on a quest to discover what it means to live.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Troy H. Gardner
• Release date: Jul 16, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463863602

Troy H. Gardner

Troy H. Gardner grew up in New Hampshire and graduated with a B.A. in English/Communications with a dual concentration in film and writing from the Massachusetts College of Liberal Arts. He spent ten years working in the banking industry dreaming up numerous stories to write. When not writing, Troy busies himself jet-setting from Sunapee, NH to Moultonborough, NH.

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MOMENTS FROM A STOLEN YEAR

Troy H. Gardner

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to real or places are used fictitiously. Names, characters, fictitious places, and events are the products of the authors’ imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, places, or events is purely coincidental.

Copyright 2018 © by Troy H. Gardner

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or in any means—by electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise—without prior written permission.

Smashwords eBook ISBN: 9780463863602

First eBook edition July 2018

Cover design by Troy H. Gardner.

www.TroyHGardner.com

"A wasted vote is voting for somebody you don’t believe in."

—

Governor Gary Johnson

Libertarian Party Presidential Candidate

Concession Speech, November 7, 2012

CHAPTER ONE

THAT TIME

MY STOLEN YEAR BEGAN

I woke up late for school on the day I almost died. I don’t know if I should blame the pale boy, the politician, or the biggest bitch I ever knew for saving my life. It was mid-October, 2011, and I was a fifteen-year-old sophomore who never thought twice about the food I ate.

But I’m getting way ahead of myself. I’m going to be a journalist, so I’m used to jumping right into the story. Date, setting, event. That’s how they tell the news. This isn’t a news article, though, this is my life. My name’s Haley, and I shouldn’t be alive.

In the seventh and eighth grade, the high school newspaper, which some creative soul named The Chronicler, was a huge deal, and not only because there’s not a whole lot for kids to do in Nowheresville, New Hampshire. This rock star group of teens handled the paper and everyone read it. Everyone. It had local news, national, international, comics, horoscopes, puzzles, and even an advice column from someone going by the name Doctor Love. I always thought Doctor Love was one of the school’s librarians, but no one would ever come clean. The advice wasn’t always that great, but the mystery was fun.

I thought becoming a freshman would be a huge deal. I could finally join The Chronicler, my boobs would come in, and my real life would start.

As it turned out, the seniors wouldn’t let any underclassmen join the paper, no boobs, and my boyfriend dumped me for Stacey Thompson once her braces came off. I was devastated until he broke an ankle playing soccer and Stacey dumped him as soon as she saw his cast. I like how it made him look vulnerable and needy, but she was into boys who were mobile.

I fought to get on the paper for an entire semester because I wanted to do Mom proud. She’s a weather woman, does a lot of traveling. If I knew anything about her, it was that she was determined. That’s what Dad said, anyway.

After a lonely protest and a petition that mostly consisted of forged names, the seniors relented and let me on during my second semester freshman year. I got to watch the cool kids work, buy them soda, and clean up after meetings. But then they graduated, and I was the only one left to shepherd in the incoming rush of kids eager to work on The Chronicler.

Busted Becky and Nerdy Neal were the only two sign-ups. For the record, I did not give them those nicknames. Becky took horseback riding lessons the summer before sixth grade and fell one too many times, and Neal wore a lot of Star Trek uniforms to school. It only took one month for the paper to lose its cool, and barely anyone read it, not even the teachers. I thought the art teacher was an avid fan because she took so many copies, but then I realized she only wanted them for papier-mâché projects. Becky handled proofreading and marketing and Neal did all the layout. Content was my job. All of it. Our advisor, Mrs. Goldberg, suggested we go monthly instead of weekly, but I refused, and ended up filling most of The Chronicler with Associated Press articles. Even Doctor Love stopped returning my emails.

On a Thursday afternoon in mid-October, I sat in Mrs. Goldberg’s room with Busted Becky and Nerdy Neal. It was chilly, but Mrs. Goldberg refused to run the heat in her classroom since she shared radiator systems with a mean-spirited math teacher who complained constantly.

Who wants to cover the play tomorrow night? Mrs. Goldberg asked as she pulled a shawl over her bony shoulders. An English teacher, she was once proud of her popular paper, but now she merely went through the motions, hopeful for another crop of enthusiastic students to make her look good again. She knew I managed all the writing, but she still asked the group for some reason.

Haley can handle that, right? Becky asked. I’m not even going.

Thanks, Becky. It’s not like you have anyplace better to be.

I have a LARPing event Saturday morning, Neal said. Two hours away, and I still have to finish my chain mail.

I hate you, Neal. I don’t even know what that means, but I hate you.

Haley? Mrs. Goldberg asked lazily.

Do we even need to cover the play? I had the sneaking suspicion the article I wrote would actually get read for a change, which meant the scathing review I’d undoubtedly write would only make me enemies. Avoiding the hassle seemed a lot easier.

It’s kind of important, Neal said.

Damn it, Neal.

All the kids in the drama department will care, Mrs. Goldberg said warily. Your article will be posted on refrigerators across town. And Mrs. Munroe keeps a scrapbook of all the plays she directs.

Unless I tear the amateurs a new one.

All right.

Becky and Neal shared a smile while I crossed my arms and Mrs. Goldberg clapped her hands once like a judge clanging a gavel.

Maybe we should start a column on fun things from history that happened on people’s birthdays, Mrs. Goldberg suggested. We can run old stories that occurred on specific dates with the names of students who were born that day. For example, Orson Welles was born on my birthday.

No one knows who that is, Becky said.

Anyway, how about you, Neal? We’ll see if we can’t find something interesting for you. When’s your birthday?

September eleventh.

And how about you, Haley? Mrs. Goldberg asked without missing a beat.

We finished the meeting and I left, angry with myself for caving and angrier at the others for being utterly useless. Maybe I could give finding Doctor Love another shot.

I waited in the cafeteria for the second bus run, which took me most of the way to my house in the suburbs. I shuffled through the colorful leaves on the sidewalk, my book bag slung over one shoulder. As I neared my house, I spotted Dad hammering large political signs into the front lawn.

Isn’t it kinda early for this? I asked.

Late, actually, he said, surveying his work. New Hampshire kicks off primary season in January.

What about Iowa?

It’s a caucus, doesn’t count. After we vote, then the horse race gets really interesting. Got to sway those undecided voters.

You think signs on a stranger’s yard with a barely recognizable last name on them will do the trick?

You think it’s more about showboating than political discourse, huh? he asked, hands on his hips.

I was thinking tacky, but sure. I dropped my book bag on the front stoop and stood next to my father. He’s much taller than me and skinny as a beanpole. People assume I must take after my mom, so I tell them I do. Gazing up at his blue eyes, I saw hope. You know no one’s ever heard of Gary Johnson before.

Give it time, he said. I could never crush his spirit, no matter how hard I tried.

You didn’t care this much last election, I pointed out.

I was just as invested, but you were eleven, kiddo. McCain was a clear frontrunner in the Republican primary, though Romney had a shot. But the Democrats’ primary was riveting. It looked like Hillary had it with the superdelegates, but Obama secured that spot on the ticket.

I was about to ask Dad what made a delegate so super, but he pointed across the street. "A realtor came by the Torkelsons’ place and removed the For Sale sign."

That was quick. The Torkelsons had moved out only a few weeks ago, and good riddance. Their terrier felt it was his duty to bark on the hour. Who could have bought their place?

You should cover the primaries in your paper, Dad said. It wasn’t the first time, or the tenth. Big debate next week in Las Vegas. Should be interesting.

Will Gary be there? I couldn’t hide my grin.

No word, yet, Dad said, completely serious. He deserves a spot. Interview me and I’ll give you the rundown on the whole thing. Some very interesting nuggets not many people are aware of.

There’s barely anyone who can vote in my school.

If you can reach one person, Dad said, holding up a finger, then job well done.

I’m going to start on my homework, there’s something about solving X I have to do about fifty times. What’s for dinner? I left Dad and the signs after glancing at the empty house across the street.

How’s taco salad sound?

Like I’m going to have thirds and regret it.

After we finished dinner and I put the dishes away in the washer, Dad came into the kitchen with a wineglass in hand.

Are you having more wine?

It’s heart healthy, he said.

"One glass is."

I’m making up for missing my daily glass yesterday. And the day before.

I shook my head. So what’s up?

Moving van just pulled into the Torkelsons’ old place, Dad said. Who does all their moving in at night?

Maybe they’re spies, I teased. I knew putting up political signs would bring trouble.

Let’s gawk at them from the front window, Dad said, nodding toward the living room. I dried my hands on a raggedy dish towel and joined him in the other room.

Dad spun the blinds so we could see out through the large windows like in old detective movies. We stood next to each other, staring intently at the bulky movers across the street. They carried cardboard boxes inside the dark house, and I could only make out a few words like fragile and living room written on them.

A blue sedan parked on the curb, under a streetlight, and a brawny man stepped out. He didn’t look happy and my hopes of a friendly neighbor vanished.

Looks like a boxer, Dad said.

Maybe he’s a celebrity. Wonder if he has any kids.

Still hoping for a boy next door romance? Dad asked, reminding me that he could tease as good as he got.

Funny.

Think I should make a casserole or something for them tomorrow? Dad asked as we watched a woman get out of the sedan and give directions to the movers. She was plump and looked like she could handle herself as well as her husband.

Why do you want to be a ’50s housewife? I asked.

So no casserole is what you’re saying? He raised his wineglass to his grinning lips.

The backseat door of the sedan opened and a boy my age stepped out. He had messy dark hair and light skin. He wore a denim jacket and pulled the collar up as he glanced around the street. Dad and I jumped back from the window, as if he caught us doing something horrible.

Did he see us? I asked.

Who? Dad asked.

The son, I said. Why’d you jump back if you didn’t see him?

You hid, so I thought I should, too. Dad leaned back around and looked through the window again. Your boy next door is going inside.

You’re ridiculous. I willed myself not to steal another look as I passed Dad and went upstairs to my room. Have fun being the creepy neighbor.

Will do.

I listened to music while I chipped away at my schoolwork. It was as mind numbing as always, so I gave up near the end and turned on the TV. While housewives argued on the screen, I checked on the new neighbors through the window, but all looked still across the street. I wondered if I would see that boy on the bus in the morning, and if I should say anything to him. It would be weird to introduce myself, but wouldn’t it be weirder to avoid him?

Once I caught the ads for next week’s housewives drama, I shut off the TV and went into the bathroom to brush my teeth. Dad caught me in the hallway on the way back.

Heading to bed?

Yep.

You don’t need your clock, right? Dad asked, strutting into my bedroom behind me. He looked around for a moment and then picked up the clock from my bedside table.

Uh, I have school in the morning, why?

You always wake up twenty minutes early, Dad said. Your internal alarm is perfect. You know I need a drum solo to get up. And you can set your cell.

Why do you need it?

I just got a response from the Johnson campaign. I can drive in before work and get pamphlets and some educational material. And I want to stake out a prime canvassing area before it gets taken by the other guys.

You think there’s going to be other guys promoting Gary Johnson?

"It could happen."

Fine, my cell works, I said. Better to go with the flow than fight the flood. Anything for Gary.

That’s my girl. Thanks. Dad yanked the clock from the wall and hurried out of the room. Goodnight! Sometimes it was like living with another teenager, only one who really cared about things.

Already tired, I set the alarm on my cell phone and set it by my bed. I looked out the window one last time at the house across the street and then crawled into bed, absolutely no idea the next day would change my life forever.

CHAPTER TWO

THAT TIME

I OVERSLEPT

My cell phone woke me up Friday morning, but it wasn’t from the alarm I’d set. I had no idea what the time was, but it had to be early. Too early for someone to be calling. After reaching out and slamming my hand around for a while, I found the phone and pulled it to my face, sure it was a wrong number.

Hello?

Hey, just had a paranoid feeling and wanted to make sure you got up all right for school, Dad said.

The alarm hasn’t even gone off yet, I said, still groggy. What time is it?

’Round eight o’clock, Dad said. Aren’t you at school?

My eyes shot wide open and my entire body tensed. Damn it.

Sorry I didn’t call earlier, Dad said. I was talking to the campaign people—so nice by the way, a couple of real go-getters—then I was in the car. You know how nervous I get about using the phone while I’m driving. I always picture those ‘my sister died sending a meaningless text’ ads.

Uh huh, I said, barely listening. I had more important things to worry about, like whether I should bother taking a shower or not.

You probably set the alarm for seven PM instead of AM.

Probably, I said with a sigh. I got to get ready. Did you fix the tire on my bike?

Now I feel doubly horrible. I’m already at work, otherwise I’d take you, Dad said. I don’t want you walking all that way.

What else am I supposed to do? I asked, trying not to freak out at him. Walking was going to suck, and I’d get all sweaty for the rest of the day, which would only make math class that much worse.

Do you have any important tests or anything today?

I don’t think so. What did that even matter?

How about I call the school and tell them you’re staying home sick? he offered. Good thing I’d refrained from freaking out at him.

Yes! I mean, I guess so, I said, not wanting to act too eager. A three-day weekend would be heaven. I could use the time to get some articles written.

Which means you’ll be productive? he asked, clearly leading my answers along.

So productive.

And you do sound a little hoarse…

So hoarse.

Then get some rest, I’ll take care of everything.

Thanks, Dad.

See you tonight.

Bye.

I slept for another two hours before I pulled myself out of bed and took a long, steaming hot shower. My feet were sore, so I scraped a fingernail along the heels and found dead skin flaking off. I heard about fancy spas with piranhas that eat dead foot skin, and this seemed so much easier. And free.

Around lunchtime, I made myself cereal and then checked the mail—bills and flyers. The blue sedan was parked in the driveway across the street and I wondered if the couple and their kid were the whole family or if there was a daughter I could befriend. It was weird to move into town a few months into the school year. Had the boy signed up for classes already? Had he taken my seat in math? For that matter, would anyone even care that I wasn’t there? It’s not like I had any close friends who’d miss me or teachers who relied on me to answer questions about European history.

I stopped at the mailbox when I heard hammering coming from the house across the street. I paused for a moment but didn’t see anything out of the ordinary, so I shrugged it off and went back inside. Maybe they were putting up a birdfeeder or something in the backyard.

By the time Dad got home from work, I had accomplished nothing but got caught up on TV shows. After we ate, and the sun set, we made brownies to deliver to the new neighbors to get some intel.

Dad and I trudged across the street sometime after six with our hands full of brownies and knocked on the front door. I felt a moment full of opportunities. What would we find on the other side of the door? New friends or enemies, or people we’d never speak to again? The pleasant possibilities outweighed the negatives, and my stomach actually had butterflies.

As I feared, the burly man answered with a surly