✞ Prologue: John and Nancy Library ✞
John and Nancy Library hunkered on Camden, Penobscot Bay, with a cobbled and verdant porch that jutted out to the sidewalk. Above the oasis of plants, a balcony overlooked the bay, a tree with white blossoms swaying just beside it.
Branches jabbed the white-washed wall, the blue trimming of the windowsills peeling as the wood creaked with the weight of Francis Harvey, a shy sixteen-year-old from San Francisco.
A journal, dappled with coffee and tea stains alike, was held timidly in the hands of Francis, a ballpoint pen strapped to the journal's spine. Leaning against the railing, the teenager surveyed the small town of Maine, her fair and freckled skin flustered with melancholia and the energy of late summer.
Down, down, down. Into the abyss of your heart, shove it!
Averting her opal gaze from the sameness of the sky and ocean, Francis began skimming through her leather haven, the newly written ink glistening in the sun.
February 9th, 2005: Settling In
What am I to think? I loathe every part of him! I miss San Francisco - why can't he see that?
I miss the damp and foggy and generally crap weather. Hell, I even miss Mr. Richerson from Alemany Boulevard. But I miss mom the most.
As Francis stared at the smudged writing, her spirits continued to wilt as a red and homespun truck sloped and parked into the dirt driveway. An older man wearing a blue, tweed cloak lugged a box labeled 'F.M.H.' Francis Marie Harvey.
Turning away from the stark-haired man, Francis clenched her jaw and waltzed through the open French doors of the unfurnished bedroom. A daybed resided cramped in the corner, with a quilt splayed out on the mattress. A desk situated in the other far corner, the wood was contrasting with the ivory of the wall. "Francis!" a loud voice rang out from the first level - the Library itself.
The stairs grated with each step, dust springing off the faded wallpaper as Francis ran her nimble fingers across it. With the last step, Francis' stomach had become a monsoon of dissatisfaction. "This place is shi-" a harrowing glare met her, courtesy of her father, as he outstretched the large box to her face. "Go upstairs and unpack."
After that, she took the box away from her father's clutch, the musty aroma of old wood and books lingered throughout the air. The living space was connected to the kitchen, a place of few cupboards and a fridge, whereas the lounge had a coffee table, two leather chairs, and a maroon settee.
"I miss San Francisco." Francis deadpanned, placing the box on the wood-planked floor. Sighing, Mr. Harvey continued to unpack, shedding his daughter a timid glance. "I know you do, Francis, I know. But I was the top candidate for this job. Not to mention…"
The man trailed off, his hands grasping a photograph of a forlorn woman holding a freckled-face, beaming toddler, "I think we just need a break from the city." Leaning against the ceramic counter, Francis began tracing the intricate design. "You were afraid," she started, speaking lowly, "That what Mom had passed down to me."
"Francis, how can you just assume that?"
"Stop acting so ignorant! God, do you even miss her?!"
"Francis…"
"Do you?"
Mr. Harvey rubbed his temples, the circles of blue around his eyes prominent as his face sagged. "You know plenty well that I miss your mother," resuming his unloading, Mr. Harvey remained placid as Francis leaned her head against the countertop. "But what she did to herself was unhonorable-"
"She was depressed!" shrieked Francis, her face newly blotched with redness as the tears came down, "What don't you understand about that?!" His nostrils flared, clenching his jaw, Mr. Harvey slammed a book, the Bible, onto the counter. "It's going against our religion. I've taught you this, the Fifth Commandment-"
"Shut up!" spat Francis, raking a trembling hand through her red hair, "It's your religion, your beliefs - not mine!"
"Francis!"
"If God loved her so much, why'd he concede her death - why did you?!" The tension faltered and rippled in the air, suffocated and contracting the heartstrings of the Harveys' as draft grazed the windows.
Watching while her hushed father took out a rosary, Francis pushed herself away from the counter and pivoted away from the confound living space, muttering as she did so.
"You're dead to me."
"...Make sure to be ready for school tomorrow, Francis." The box clattered as she hefted it, the teenager biting her lip, her eyes ablaze as they fended off more tears. Sunlight was spewed across the floor, reminding Francis of the passing time. Before she knew it, she'd be leaving for, yet another, highschool.
Tick, tick, ticking away!
Plopping the box on the bed, Francis inspected the articles within the box; books, photographs, prayer cards, a backpack from her old school, some clothes, and posters of bands she fancied.
Her father, Mr. Harvey, had been a priest before meeting Francis' mother, Mary Walsh, at Dana Point in California, in which he chose to release from his religious duties. He named his only daughter after her grandmother, Francis Elizabeth Harvey. Still, he also decided to have Francis be the namesake of the saint - Saint Francis of Assisi, in hopes the name would bring charitability to her actions.
Nonetheless, Christianity did not commute to the sixteen-year-old, regardless of her father's beckonings. At times though, Francis would find herself desperate for the affection of an abstract being, a God of sorts, and so, had attended Mass with her mother and father before moving to Camden.
I am a Mare Imbrium of anxiety.
Pulling out the black backpack, Francis noted the binder, folders, and notebooks inside. Tomorrow, she'd be going to Goode High, a private school in upper Camden, and one of the most respected schools in the Americas. Back when they lived in California, she attended a Catholic school in San Francisco, Westbrook High. Naturally, Francis never necessarily belonged there as a submissive, secluded, grade-A freshman, but had managed to garner a few friends as a freshman there.
What's school going to be? I don't have Mom here to help.
After she packed away the clothing and hung the posters, she uprooted the only books she'd brought with her; Cloud Atlas and Black Swan Green by David Mitchelle. What was the point of bringing her collection when they would live above a library?
"Dinner, Francis!" her father's voice called out. Francis' heart thrummed against her chest as she huffed a breath at the mere thought of school, as she hustled out of her room, her mind aflame with repercussions.
Down, down, down. Into the abyss of your heart, shove it!
"You should check out the Library," idly mentioned Mr. Harvey as they ate Mexican take-out. Shrugging, Francis raked a hand through her shoulder-cropped hair, the dinginess of the light overhead. "I already did."
The Library was separated with a beaded-curtain and was the threshold of the living space and the store itself. Before Francis' father's arrival, she had rummaged through the bookshelves to find the assigned books for school.
Parting the beads, Francis flicked the dim light on as the homely store revealed itself. A fan spun in the center of the room with lamps flickering on, dust from bookcases surging into the air. The spines of classical books gleamed at her as she surveyed them.
The only books she'd managed to find in the sea of them were To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee, The Great Gatsby, 1984 by George Orwell, The Odyssey, and The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald.
"Why'd we move into a library anyways?" Setting his fork down, Mr. Harvey pushed his glasses higher on his nose. "It was a) The closest to Goode, b) was the closest to the local university, and c) was the cheapest."
"I heard an older couple lived here," she quirked an eyebrow incuriously, "did they die?" Rolling his eyes, Mr. Harvey continued to pick at his food, "My goodness, Francis. They didn't die."
Later that day, Francis glared through the haze of her tears at the ceiling, the reflection of light spouted across the plaster-paint. Her heart raced. What is going to happen at Goode? Will it be like Westbrook? - I can't live with that, can I? Should I try being more open and boastful? Or timid and laid-back - what if I'm a nervous wreck! - an abrasive and subtly arrogant disaster?
Her mind reeling, tears fell as Francis checked the clock - Midnight, a perfect time for a breakdown. Impulsively, the teenager wagered her luck and pulled out her journal, switched on her lamplight, and frantically began writing.
February 10th, 2005
It's midnight, February 10th, and I still miss San Francisco. Adamantly, I believe the elderly couple
that once lived here, John and Nancy Wilder, had died. I've found numerous news articles of their passing, so why would my father lie? It's like he's oblivious to the world around because if he is, he'll be a Saint.
If that he never opens up to others, then he'll be depicted as holy! And if he acts indifferent to Mom's death, she would never have existed!
I hate him for acting so insensitive to Mom's death.
I hate the Fifth Commandment and all of his self-indulgent rules!
You're dead to me, Gus Harvey!
A/N: I know many people (myself included) don't prefer O.C.s as an introduction to the story, and I'm sorry for that. Anyways, this is in dire need of thorough editing, but unfortunately, I don't have the time. Anyways, thanks for checking this out! (I'll get to the editing later)
Song Recommendation: Goodie Bag by Still Woozy