Lost: The Novels

by Catherine Hapka

  CRASH!

  The sudden cacophony from the next aisle startled him out of his reverie. It sounded as if the entire store was coming down over there.

  Leaving the cart where it was, he hurried to see what had happened. Rounding the corner into the next aisle, the first thing he saw was a big, scattered pile of merchandise in large, colorful, flat boxes. Then he gasped as he spotted his aunt in the middle of it. She was sprawled on the floor like a beached whale, moaning and writhing and weakly trying to push several of the boxes off her chest and stomach. Her faded blue housedress was up around her thighs, exposing her flabby knees, and she had lost a shoe.

  “Aunt Paula!” Dexter blurted out, rushing toward her.

  He kneeled beside her, almost afraid to look into her twisted, groaning face. Instead he glanced at one of the boxes on the floor nearby. It featured a color photo of a smiling, affluent-looking man with a silvery mustache. The man was standing on the deck of a luxury yacht cooking steaks on a portable grill. Gold-colored script beside him identified him as Chef Cross, and the label on the box proclaimed that it contained one of his patented Cross Grills—as seen on TV and available at the nation’s finest retailers. Dexter stared at the photo for a long moment, wishing he could transport himself onto that yacht, where Chef Cross’s smile assured him that life was much more pleasant.

  Meanwhile, others had heard the commotion. A middle-aged woman in a MonoMart uniform was one of the first to arrive. She skidded to a stop and looked down at Aunt Paula, wide-eyed.

  “Are you okay, lady?” she asked breathlessly.

  “No, I’m not okay!” Aunt Paula cried. “These boxes—the stupid display came down on me when I was just walking by. My back! Call an ambulance, someone, I can’t move!”

  3

  IT WAS DAYLIGHT WHEN Dexter awoke again. The pains of his earlier awakening had faded to a dull, nagging, body-wide ache. He sat up, stretching his sore muscles. Someone had rigged up a tarp over him while he slept; it cast a cool blue shade over the sand, though the air was heavy with humidity and very warm.

  He checked his watch, but it had stopped working. Not knowing the time made him feel disoriented; how long had it been since the crash? He could hear the chatter of voices all around him and decided it was time to find out what was going on.

  The second he crawled out from beneath his makeshift shelter, the sun attacked him mercilessly. Waves of heat sizzled and rose off the sand, making him feel dizzy. Spotting the water bottle Jack had given him under the shelter, still half full, he reached down and grabbed it. The water was warm, but he gulped it down anyway. It made his head feel a little clearer—and at the same time put his stomach into a growling, snapping spasm of hunger.

  Food. He needed food. That would help him think.

  He remembered Jack saying something about someone collecting food from the plane. Last night, the very thought of an unheated, greasy airline meal had nauseated him. Now, though, it sounded downright appetizing. It was funny, he thought, how quickly a change of circumstance could lead to a change in perspective.

  Dexter glanced around the beach. So far nobody was paying him any notice. People were walking along the shoreline, wandering amidst the wreckage, or dragging luggage and other items here and there. An overweight guy with curly hair was digging through a large suitcase, while nearby a young boy was kicking at the sand, looking dejected. Both of them looked vaguely familiar, and Dexter recalled that they’d been sitting near him on the plane.

  Just behind him, someone spoke suddenly in a language Dexter didn’t understand. Turning, he saw an Asian man standing there holding a black tray containing four small white dishes.

  “Excuse me?” Dexter blurted out, startled by the man’s sudden appearance.

  The man repeated his undecipherable comment, gesturing urgently at his tray with his free hand. Taking a closer look, Dexter saw that each dish on the tray held a bit of slimy grayish substance that he assumed had once been some sort of sea life. He took a step backward as a fishy smell drifted toward him on the light sea breeze.

  Once again the man spoke, sounding frustrated. He carefully pointed to one of the pieces and then mimed eating it.

  Dexter shuddered. As hungry as he was, he wasn’t quite that hungry. In fact, he was pretty sure he’d resort to eating the sand underfoot before he’d put that icky-looking thing in his mouth. He’d never managed to develop a taste for sushi. The first time he’d tried to eat it, he’d barely made it to the restroom in time.

  “No thanks,” he told the man, waving his hands. The motion made another wave of dizziness pass over him. “That’s okay. Thanks anyway.”

  The man scowled at him, once more gesturing to his offering. Dexter was trying to figure out how to make the fish guy go away when, out of the corner of his eye, he suddenly noticed a group of about half a dozen people hiking purposefully across the beach toward the trees. Among them was a slender young blond woman wearing shorts and a light-colored tank top.

  His heart jumped. “Daisy!” he blurted out, leaping into action and racing across the sand without a second thought for Sushi Man. “Daisy, wait! It’s me—I’m okay! Daisy!”

  Despite a lightheadedness that threatened to send him reeling face-first onto the sand, he caught up to the group halfway across an open area of scrubby vegetation just off the beach. Leaping the last few steps, he grabbed her by the shoulder and spun her around to face him.

  “What the— Who are you? Get your hands off me, you freak!”

  A pretty blond stranger was glaring at him, her eyes shooting fire. Not Daisy. Not Daisy at all.

  “Oh!” Dexter wheezed, already sweaty and out of breath from the brief run. “Sorry. I—I thought you were someone else.”

  “I wish she was someone else,” one of the other people in the group muttered.

  Dexter blinked at the dark-haired young man who had just spoken, wondering why he looked so familiar. Had he been sitting in his section of the flight as well?

  Then, in a flash, it came back to him: This was the stranger who had helped him right after the crash, the one he’d thought was his double staring down at him. As it turned out, the two of them really didn’t look that much alike other than being within a few years of the same age and having similar coloring.

  He felt awkward, as if he should say something, though the other guy didn’t seem to remember him. Before he could figure out what to do, the pretty blonde spoke again.

  “Shut up, Boone,” she snapped, tossing her head and glaring at the dark-haired stranger. “In case you haven’t figured it out, I’m not exactly thrilled to be stuck here with you right now, either. That doesn’t mean I’m going to whine about it all day like a big baby.”

  “Whatever, Shannon.” Boone scowled at her, then turned away.

  “Are you okay?” One of the others, a tall young woman with reddish-brown hair pulled up in a bun, was staring at Dexter with concern. “You look a little pale.”

  “I’m okay.” Dexter forced a smile. “Sorry for the mix-up.”

  They continued on their way and he wandered back to the beach, feeling a bit embarrassed. He had been so certain that blond girl was Daisy.…

  Daisy.

  The name exploded in his heart, filling him with guilt. How could he have forgotten about Daisy? All this time he’d been lying around sleeping when she could be hurt…or worse.

  “Hey, man. You all right?”

  Dexter looked up, realizing he’d been wandering along staring at the ground and had almost run into someone. The speaker, an African-American man with a close-cropped goatee, was staring at him with concern.

  “S-sorry,” Dexter said, realizing he was still a little lightheaded. “Guess I wasn’t looking where I was going. Sorry about that.”

  “No problem. Aren’t you the guy who was passed out all night? My boy was wondering if you’d ever wake up. My name’s Michael, by the way.”

  Glancing down the beach toward the kid he’d noticed earlier, Dexter gue
ssed this must be the boy’s father. “I’m Dexter. Dexter Cross. And yeah, I guess that was me. I’m awake now, though. And I need to find somebody—my girlfriend, Daisy.” He turned his head to look around the beach, and swayed woozily.

  “Whoa.” Michael put out a hand to steady him. “You don’t look too good, man. Are you sure you shouldn’t lie down again for a while?”

  “I’ll be okay. I just need some food, and to find Daisy.…”

  “Food. Right.” Michael glanced around. “That big guy—Hurley—he’s the food man around here. He’s busy helping Jack right now, I think. But the food’s over there; come on.…”

  Before long Michael had set him up with a packet of airline food. Dexter sat in the shade of a piece of wreckage just long enough to wolf it down, barely tasting it. Then he drank down a full bottle of water.

  The food and water cleared his mind. Once he was feeling better, he still could only focus on one thing: finding Daisy. He stood up and scanned the survivors he could see, but there was no sign of her.

  Of course not, he told himself, scratching absently at a mosquito bite. If she were here—and okay—she would have found me by now.

  A couple of young men walked past carrying a pile of seat cushions from the plane. Dexter stepped forward to intercept them.

  “Hey,” he called. “Where are the injured people? You know—from the crash. I need to find someone.”

  One of the young men wiped the sweat from his brow. “Hope it’s not the dude with the shrapnel,” he said. “The doc’s with him now—not looking too good from what I hear.”

  “Chill, Scott,” the second guy said. “You don’t have to scare him.” He glanced at Dexter. “It’s not the dude with the shrapnel, is it?”

  “It’s not a dude at all,” Dexter said. “It’s a girl—my girlfriend, Daisy. Pretty, about this tall…” He held up a hand to indicate her height. “Blond hair.”

  The other two guys shrugged in unison. “Haven’t seen anyone like that among the wounded,” Scott replied. “Sorry. You could check the tents, though.” He waved one hand to indicate the little colony of tarps and other temporary shelters dotted here and there amidst the wreckage.

  “Okay, thanks.” Dexter stepped back, shading his eyes with his hand as they went on their way. He headed for the first of the shelters, peering inside. Instead of Daisy, he found only a middle-aged man with half his leg ripped away.

  With a shudder, he moved on before the man could open his eyes and see him. He checked a few more shelters, but most were empty.

  As he looked around for the next spot to check, Dexter noticed a familiar-looking hound-faced man stepping out of the jungle at beach’s edge. It was the guy who had called Jack for him last night, Dexter realized.

  He walked toward him, planning to thank him for watching over him while he was passed out. Before he reached him, the older man spotted him approaching and did a double take.

  “Hey! How did you get back here so fast?” he demanded, hurrying forward.

  Dexter stared at him, confused. “What?”

  “Come on,” the man said. “If you know a shortcut back to the beach, spill it.”

  “I—I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Dexter stammered. “My name’s Dexter Cross, and I was just coming to thank you for—”

  “Okay, and my name’s Arzt, and nice to meet ya.” The man, Arzt, peered at him rather suspiciously. “But I’m not sure what you’re trying to pull here, Cross.”

  “Pull? I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Sure you do,” Arzt insisted. “Look, I just saw you out there by the twisted trees, okay? I know you saw me, too—you even waved, for God’s sake. I know it was you; I was pretty surprised to see you up and about after being passed out for most of the past day.”

  Dexter shook his head. “Sorry, but you must be mistaken. I wasn’t out in the jungle. I’ve been right here on the beach since I woke up.”

  Arzt looked unconvinced, but he shrugged. “If you say so.” He glanced over his shoulder at the tree waving gently in the breeze. “I’ve been sticking pretty close to the beach myself, ’specially after whatever that was we heard last night and earlier today.”

  “What do you mean?” Dexter was impatient to continue his search for Daisy, but he was curious about Arzt’s words—and the fearful expression that had suddenly appeared in the man’s eyes. “What did you hear?” He pointed to himself. “Passed out, remember?”

  “Oh, yeah.” Arzt smiled briefly. “Right. Well, be glad you missed it—it was pretty freaky. Big crashing noises, weird woo-woo noises…” He waved his arms around dramatically, apparently at a loss for words to illustrate what he was trying to describe.

  Dexter shook his head. “But what do you mean? What was making the noises? Was it a rescue party?”

  “I’m thinking that’s a no.” Arzt shrugged. “Nobody knows what it was. Sounded big and scary; that’s all I know.”

  “Oh.” Dexter was rapidly losing interest. Whatever Arzt was talking about, it didn’t seem nearly as important as looking for Daisy. “Look, I need to find my girlfriend. Have you seen any blond girls out in the jungle? About this tall?” Dexter motioned with his hands.

  “Nope. Your girlfriend, eh? You been with her long?”

  “About six months or so,” Dexter replied, drifting back toward the main part of the beach with Arzt beside him. “We go to college together.”

  “Oh yeah? What are you studying in college, Cross?”

  “Psychology,” Dexter replied. “I really like it. Just declared a few months ago.”

  “Good, good. Very interesting subject. Just take my advice—don’t go into teaching. At least not ninth graders.” Arzt shuddered and rolled his eyes. “Trust me on that one, I’m a teacher myself. High school science.”

  Dexter laughed politely. “I haven’t really thought too much yet about what I’m going to do after I graduate,” he admitted. “I figure I have plenty of time to decide—maybe go to grad school, maybe just take some time off to see what comes along. I guess I’m lucky that way, you know? It’s nice knowing I’ll always have my family’s money to fall back on.…”

  4

  “YOU CAN’T HELP BEING born poor, Dexter.” The school counselor, a plump, earnest, shiny-faced woman named Mrs. Washington, leaned back in her chair and crossed her hands on her lap as she gazed at him kindly. “But you can help what happens to you from here on out. That’s where I come in. We need to talk about your plans—all your teachers are assuming you want to go to college.”

  Dexter shifted his weight in the uncomfortable wooden chair. Outside the window, which was closed, he could hear the muffled shouts and laughter of his schoolmates and the dull bounce, bounce, bounce of a basketball against the pavement out in the student parking lot. Inside Mrs. Washington’s cramped beige office, the air was stale and nearly silent, only the droning buzz of the wall clock filling the space when she wasn’t talking.

  “I don’t know,” he mumbled after a moment. “I’m not sure college is, you know, for me. All those loans…”

  When Mrs. Washington smiled, she looked a little like a chipmunk. A chipmunk with glasses.

  “I understand your concern, Dexter,” she said. “But scholarships and loans were made for students just like you. With your excellent SAT scores and grades, I expect you’ll have no trouble finding scholarship money. I can help you with that. And once you’re accepted at a school, you can work out a good financial aid package to cover the rest of your expenses. As successful as you’re bound to be, you’ll be able to pay it off in no time.”

  Dexter kept a polite half-smile on his face as she rambled on about tuition expenses, need-based scholarships, and more. But he wasn’t really listening. If there was one thing his hardscrabble life had taught him, it was to be realistic and not get his hopes up or try to change things he couldn’t control. Even with scholarships and financial aid, there just wouldn’t be enough money for college. He’d long since accepted that an
d was trying to make the best of it. But Mrs. Washington, with her reams of information and her well-meaning, encouraging eyes, wasn’t making it easy for him this time. He stared at the stack of colorful college brochures on the corner of her desk, allowing himself a brief, wistful moment of reverie.

  If only…

  He shut down the thought before it could go any further. It was no use thinking that way. He knew what his life was—and what it wasn’t. There was nothing to do but accept it.

  He escaped from the meeting as soon as he could, accepting the information sheets and brochures she offered just to shut her up. The basketball game was still going on out in the parking lot, so Dexter took the side door, skirting the bushes to avoid being seen. The last thing he needed that day was a run-in with the usual bullies.

  Once he was out of sight around the corner, he relaxed a little. It was bad enough that he had to walk the two miles home, since he’d missed the bus because of his meeting with the counselor. The only thing worse would be if the rich boys in their BMWs and Mustangs and Jeeps caught him and decided they were bored enough to stop and taunt him about being too poor to afford a car. The last time that had happened he’d ended up with a black eye and a reputation as a wimp, since he’d done everything he could to avoid the fight in the first place.

  He skirted the park and then walked along the cracked sidewalk beside Beale Street, which led toward the poor side of town where Dexter and his mother lived in their run-down rented townhouse. When he came to the big wire trash can on the corner of Fourth, he paused just long enough to pull the college brochures out of his backpack and dump them in. He stood watching them fall down among the used tissues, tin cans, and banana skins. Then he turned away, crossed the street, and trudged toward home.

  When he let himself in the back door, he found his mother and Aunt Paula sitting together at the battered card table in the kitchen. His mother was still wrapped in the shabby purple robe she always wore around the house on her day off. Aunt Paula was decked out in the thick, grayish-colored neck brace she’d worn since her accident at the MonoMart. Dexter always winced when he saw it; he was pretty sure she was faking her injuries, but he’d long since learned not to confront her about such things. No matter what he thought or said about her schemes, she would never change.