The blonde teenager fell to his knees on the grassy earth. He couldn't believe it, he didn't want to believe it. After all these years of searching...hoping, waiting, and dreaming for this moment, it had been for nothing. He stared at the humble tombstones in front of him, reading the words over and over again, as though he could twist them somehow, to make them say something different:
Miles Raymond Shortman Born: November 9th 1976 Died: October 12th 2004
Stella Lauren Shortman Born: April 19th 1977 Died October 12th 2004
"NOOOO!"
Arnold Phillip Shortman woke with a yell and toppled out of bed. Breathing hard, he rolled onto all fours, his eyes wide open. "A-a dream..." He muttered to himself. "Just-just a dream..." Arnold looked over his shoulder at his homemade alarm clock. It read four thirty in the morning. Arnold sighed. "How am I ever going to get back to sleep?" He wondered. He wiped the sweat off his forehead, his hand still shaking. Knowing he wouldn't be able to go back to sleep, he stood up and stretched, and headed over to his desk. He sat down and gazed unhappily at the cork-board on the wall. It was covered with photos, brochures, and newspaper clippings, all featuring one place: San Lorenzo.
It had been over fifteen years since Arnold's parents went to the mysterious country and never returned. Arnold had tried practically everything he could think of to find them, or even find their friend, Eduardo. But he had hit dead end after dead end. Arnold's eyes slid over to the old beaten up journal in the corner of his desk. It had belonged to his father, and there was a map of San Lorenzo in it, but it didn't help much in his search. It almost seemed like the journal was mocking Arnold, giving him false hope, and no real answers. He had even considered throwing the old thing away, but every time he did, he felt overcome with shame. It was the last thing his parents had left him, aside from his old blue hat. He couldn't just get rid of it. It was a part of him.
His eyes then strayed to the jar that sat near the journal. It was mostly empty, just some small change. Arnold shook it wistfully as he picked it up. It made a pathetic-sounding rattle, echoing Arnold's feelings. At some point, he had wanted to earn enough money to go there himself. But after doing a lot of research, he realized just how fruitless that goal was. Not only would it have been crazy expensive just to reach South America, but getting to San Lorenzo presented other problems. It was a remote country. It was mostly jungle with little to no human inhabitants. Most of them were indigenous people, like the Green-Eyes. Arnold knew that the Green-Eyed people would probably know where his parents were, but finding them was practically impossible. They had stayed a hidden civilization for hundreds of years. He didn't know their language, and his father's map wasn't very detailed. So eventually he gave up on his daring rescue plan and went back to hoping they would come back on their own.
Arnold sighed again and put his head in his arms. "Why do I keep having these dreams?" He said to himself. He knew his parents were gone and probably weren't going to come back. It had been too long, no one had seen or heard from them. He knew this, but why did he still feel so sad? Was it because he still longed for them? He had only been one when they left. He hardly remembered them. His grandparents were the ones that raised him. And he loved them, he really did. Then why did he feel this way? Why did he feel that there was a constant hole in his heart?
To take his mind off these uncomfortable thoughts, he turned his head to look at his calendar. September 1st. Arnold groaned inwardly. Today would be the first day of school, or as Gerald, his best friend called it "The worst day of school." It was also the first day of junior year. Usually, he loved school. He loved his classes, especially history. And he loved his friends. It was just recently that it had become more...difficult, to fully enjoy his school life. Or rather, it had been one person, who had made it difficult.
Arnold stood up and walked back to his bed. On one of the many shelves there was a small photo. Arnold picked it up and stared at it, letting all the feelings wash over him again; Frustration, anxiety, anger, joy, overwhelming sadness. And most of all: love. Love for the girl with the pink bow, the girl who always drove him crazy in all the best ways. And the worst. Arnold smiled sadly at the photo... of himself and of Helga Pataki.