Earhart & Noonan: An "Us Club" Novel (#1)(NaNoWriMo15)

1. Change

Maple Park

Six Years Ago

FOR SALE!

If you ask one zoned-out clever, quiet boy, the Portersburgh suburb of Maple Park has two distinct halves, each based on looks and local news. Why? Because he loves focusing on the little things. Because it's him. And that's one thing that'll never change, even when his world is.

Upper Maple Park happens to be the "nicer" side.

The southside neighborhood's superior half checks all the right boxes. Its quiet tone is music to residents' ears. Blocks of brick houses and well-groomed lawns, crowned by a lush canopy of overhanging oaks, paint a shaded storybook coziness. To an outsider, it's magical. But, really, if you ask around, the locals will say it's nothing special.

The "FOR SALE!" sign is for the sole vacant property past the bend, halfway down Dobson Street. It's attracted its share of attention from many potential buyers. A two-story, two-bedroom, one-bath dwelling would surely be off the market by now for its family-friendly simplicity.

So, why hasn't it sold yet?

Maybe it's because there's more to the house than meets the outer eye. Maybe it's because of months of renter damage. Who'd want to give it "a little TLC," as quoted by the Goldie Wilson look-alike (to the boy) interested parties have met with, when potential repair work could cost an extra arm, leg, time, and patience?

Nicholas Vaughn, relocating contractor, would.

The boy sitting shotgun will just call him Dad.

"Alright." Dad parks the black family four-door on a free space along the curb two houses away. "All ashore who's going ashore..."

There physically but not so much mentally, the boy hops out into the June breeze. Fixing his drooping glasses and sniffling, he looks around in fidgety curiosity. Sunny rays catch the name stitched onto the back of his black-and-blue Fisher Cat soccer jersey.

S. VAUGHN

Yeah. That's him. His right hand pulls at his left's wristband of "Hope" out of anxiousness.

"Hope you like this one," Dad says as they approach the house.

"Why?"

"You said no to the last five. I'm running out of locations here, kiddo!" Dad laughs. "We're looking somewhere closer to downtown."

Downtown?

"...We can live downtown!"

"Eh. I don't think Mom wants to live in an apartment."

"Why not?" The boy sniffles. "Peter does."

Peter. The boy's best friend. Actually, he's always been like a brother. Peter's probably out with the other brother in their tight-knit trio. Jack. They're four hours away by highway, enjoying another day on break without him in Evansville, because he's out house-hunting with Dad.

That's okay. The boy's always hoped he could move to Portersburgh. The shopping arcade. The soccer games. He could definitely live here. A home-away-from-home turned simply into a home. No Peter or Jack. But, that's why he has a phone. They could still text. Or, see each other. Maybe on trips during school breaks. They could visit his new place.

"...Really?" Dad groans, not seeing the agent or his SUV anywhere. "Again? What's his problem?"

There's nothing wrong. He's not late. The boy eyes the look-alike's headshot on the sign. He's right there. Technically. He's met him before. The man could talk the day away and swoop in for the steal overnight (not that he's one to judge).

Dad pulls out his phone and scrolls through his contacts. "Go ahead. Check out the backyard, kiddo. I'll only be a minute."

Kiddo turns and sees the garage. "Back..."

The backyard. Only a minute.

Stephen? It's fine. Let's go.

Time doesn't exist in Kiddo's state, though. Curiously inching along the side of the house, his fingers ruffle the bottom of his replica jersey. He's one of the players. He's taking the tunnel walk onto his new field. The feel. It's key. Like at the previous houses, he gets a tingly chill. Flashy thumps throw him off. But, that's just the newness talking.

Right?

The boy tiptoes a few extra paces past the side and into the backyard. There, he freezes mid-step. Not because of the smaller-in-person size. Not because of the overgrown lawn that reminds him of Pokémon. Because of the dirty-blonde girl next door, paused in her own driveway, eyes wide and mouth half-agape.

The quiet boy feels like he's peeking into a gender-swapped universe the longer he stares at the just-as-quiet girl. A chiffon shine in her hair. Glasses on a roundish nose. No customized jersey. Yellow tee. Shorts. They say nothing. Outside? Faces burn. Inside? Anxiousness runs wild. A million different thoughts and questions tangle up into a tricky ball. (at least, that's what he thinks is happening in her head, too).

...Is it?

"Hi," their voices eventually crack in unison.

The suburb. The house. The bricks. The backyard. The latest showcase has made for a torn mental report up until this point.

Now?

It's a record-breaking early decision. The reason? He's looking at her. At the girl making him feel a bit of everything with her lip-biting smile.