This short story is the very first piece I wrote about Marty and Jess. It was written in the summer of 2013 and published in the anthology, Library of Dreams. Now that the rights have reverted back to me, I wanted to share it with all my readers here on Wattpad.

Writing Finding Marty was a great exercise. It allowed me to get a feel for Jess and Marty's personalities and helped me figure out the beginnings of their back stories. You'll see that some of the details I wrote here were repeated in The Boy in the Woods, but some were changed – a lot. Even I'm surprised at some of the things I'd written.  After two years of living with the Marty and Jess of The Boy in the Woods, I'd forgotten.

I really hope you like this early glimpse of Jess and Marty's characters! This is similar to chapter five when they first meet, but there are some major differences too.

Enjoy!

Finding Marty

by Katherine A. Ganzel

Marty lay perfectly still, drenched in his own sweat while he listened to the loud buzzing of cicadas outside his window. The faded blue curtains above his bed were lit by the morning sun, and he watched them, hoping for a breath of air that would cool him, but they didn't move.

What I wouldn't give for an electric fan, he thought with a sigh as he rolled away from the window, but he knew it was stupid. Even if he did have a fan, it's not like he'd be able to use it. The old man hadn't bothered to pay the electric bill in over a year. Unable to take the hot, humid air of his bedroom and aware of how long he'd been lying awake, he knew it was time to get up.

He took a quick bath in blissfully cold water, being as quiet as he could so he wouldn't wake his old man. Then he threw on a t-shirt, battered jeans, and finished by lacing up his worn brown leather boots. Already covered in fresh sweat, he ran his fingers through his still-damp dark hair, then reached under his bed and pulled out a small brown paper sack.

Uncomfortable about how late it was getting, he went to the kitchen and made three peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, trying to be quick and quiet. Once he'd wrapped them in large squares of wax paper, he shoved them on top of items he'd purchased at the grocery store in his paper bag and left, easing the back door closed.

The heat wave had been relentless but it had provided him with a great opportunity. He'd spent most of the week in town, knocking on doors looking for work. It had been grueling with the hot sun beating down on him as he went from house to house, but he felt a deep satisfaction. There wasn't a single one he'd missed with an owner willing to pay a teen boy a few bits to mow a lawn, weed flower beds, or any other chore that had to be done outside in the stifling heat.

At the end of each day, he'd made his purchases and hid the goods under his bed. It wasn't wise to make a habit of bringing home money, not even if he hid it in his room. If the old man got wind of it, he'd be sure to make his life even more difficult.

Walking across the weed-filled yard past the rusting pick-up truck, Marty finally felt like he could breathe. He'd made it out before the old man woke up. Even though he was sweltering in the oppressive heat, he felt happy.

He headed down the dirt road, surrounded by the near-deafening sound of cicadas in the trees, dust rising up with each step and coating his boots and the cuffs of his jeans. When he reached the end of the road five miles from his house, he stopped and wiped the sweat off his face.

Stretching for miles in either direction was the two lane highway that led to town. Directly across it stood a high iron fence with spikes at the top, clusters of large trees on either side. He pushed his hair out of his eyes and looked up and down the highway, but there wasn't a car in sight.

He crossed the road and went to the fence. Holding the paper bag in his teeth, he pulled himself up the bars of the fence until he reached the top. Grabbing onto one of the low branches of a tree, he navigated the spikes to reach the other side, then slid down the bars to the ground. Smiling as he took the paper bag out of his teeth, he headed into the dark woods, enjoying the slightly cooler air that enveloped him.

He'd begun sneaking onto the property two years earlier when he was a bored twelve-year-old. He knew better than to let anyone know he'd found a way over the fence since it would get him into all kinds of trouble. This was the estate of the richest man in the county, Jonathon Blackwell.

Blackwell owned the iron mine, the newspaper, and the largest grocery store in town. There were other residents who did pretty well; the two doctors, some lawyers, and a few of the other store owners, but old man Blackwell was practically the king of the community. If he ever found out Marty was trespassing on his property, Marty had no doubt he'd be locked up and Blackwell would personally throw away the key.

After a few minutes, he reached a clearing and stopped as he surveyed his final destination. It was a small, one-story cabin with a wood-shingled roof and a chimney made of river stones. Window boxes in front of the two front windows had orange and yellow marigolds growing in them. Not long after he'd started climbing over the iron fence, he'd found this place while exploring the woods.

As soon as Marty stumbled into the clearing and saw the little cabin, he jumped behind a large tree to hide, terrified he'd already been spotted by whoever was living there. With his heart pounding in his chest and alarm bells ringing in his head, he knew he should run, but he'd been wandering aimlessly for over an hour and wasn't sure which direction would lead him back to the fence.

He looked at the sun above him through the tree branches, trying to decide which direction he was facing while listening hard for approaching footsteps, but it was impossible. The sun was nearly directly overhead. Hearing only the sounds of birds and the usual forest creatures around him, he decided to to take a chance, and peeked around the tree.

Weeds grew between the steps leading up to the front door of the cabin. The flower boxes under the two front windows were empty, and fallen branches from the surrounding trees littered the clearing. The place looked deserted.

Plucking up his courage, he tiptoed to the nearest window, keeping his ears and eyes alert to any signs of occupants. The panes of glass were dirty, and inside he saw two large wooden chairs and a small table arranged haphazardly with magazines and newspapers littering the floor. He let out a deep breath. No one was living there.

Now emboldened, he tried the door handle and it opened, the hinges groaning loudly from disuse. The door was unlocked, but he wasn't surprised. The cabin was in the middle of a private estate that was surrounded by a high iron fence.

He stepped into a small parlor with a large stone fireplace. The air was musty but heavy with the perfume of the pine wood planks of the floor. He walked through it to a small kitchen, noticing a thick layer of dust coating everything. The back door was a little harder to open, but after a few hard tugs on the knob, he managed it, letting in more light and fresh air.

Opening the cupboard doors and drawers, he found a few mismatched dishes and silverware, but most were empty. There was a pump that supplied water to the wash basin and when he pumped the handle, a steady stream of rusty water came out. A small table with two stools under it was near a cast-iron cook stove with an old, battered tea kettle sitting on top of it.

Back in the parlor, his boot prints stood out in the dust covering the floor. It was clear he was the first person who'd been in there in years. Then Marty's heart sped up as a bold thought filled his mind. If no one was using the cabin, then why couldn't he? It was perfect. This could be his special place, somewhere only he knew about. He could come there and do whatever he wanted without anyone bothering him.

Later that evening, with the light fading from the sinking sun, he turned for one last look just before he left the clearing. That little cabin was his.

From that moment on, Marty had been sneaking onto the Blackwell estate nearly every day, spending hours at the cabin. At first, he'd thrown himself into the task of cleaning, attacking the years' accumulation of cobwebs and dust and washing the grime off the windows. He even cleaned up the clearing, pulling up weeds and planting flower seeds in the window boxes. Instead of spending the money he'd made doing odd jobs around town on Saturday morning movies, he'd spent it on things for the cabin and small amounts of food.

Marty walked into the cabin, leaving the front door open. The air was hotter inside and stuffy, but he breathed deeply, taking in the smell of the pine floors. He set the paper bag on a table by the fireplace and went to the nearest window. As he propped it open with a stick, he noted the glass was overdue for a washing.

With all the windows open, he went to the kitchen, taking his bag with him. Once the back door was open, he wiped sweat off his face with his shirt sleeve, thinking about the brand new box of tea in his paper bag. He hadn't been able to afford tea in a while, and he really wanted a mug.  But it was far too hot to make a fire in the wood-burning stove. He'd make a fire in the fire pit outside, he decided, turning to the stove.

When he reached for the tea kettle, his hand froze halfway to the handle while all the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. He always put the tea kettle on the rear right side of the stove, but now it was sitting on the left side, close to the front. Looking around him, he listened hard but only heard the sound of his heart pounding in his chest.

Someone had been in the cabin. There was no other explanation for the kettle being in a different spot. And if they'd been in there, they knew someone had been using it. Were they spying on him right now? He couldn't afford to get caught, he thought desperately. He had to get the hell out of there.

Terrified it was already too late, he ran to the front door. Leaping through it, he cleared the steps and then halted, skidding to a stop on the grass.

In front of him was a young girl looking just as startled to see him as he was to see her. "Oh! Hi!" she said with surprise, her voice high and strong

He breathed heavily, staring at her with shock. It had been years since he'd last thought about the possibility of being caught, but when he had, he'd always imagined old man Blackwell would be the one to find him. If not him, then the groundskeeper, or maybe even Blackwell's son, Douglas, who was a year older than Marty. But in all the times he'd pictured it, he'd never imagined it would be some kid he'd never seen before.

She was thin and small, shorter than him by a good foot, wearing a pale blue, short-sleeved dress that hung on her skinny frame, and Mary Jane shoes with white ankle socks. The bangs of her short brown hair stuck to her forehead with sweat.  She gazed at him with large brown eyes, and as the seconds stretched, he frantically tried to decide what he should do.

Then she said, "You don't live here," and the tension inside him snapped.

"Are you going to rat me out?" he shouted.

"Rat you out? To who?"

"To your daddy!" he spat, and she flinched.

"You mean my uncle?" she asked quietly.

Oh, no, he thought as a terrible realization came to him. Was her uncle old man Blackwell? He could feel the walls of a jail cell closing in around him.

"To whoever!" he shouted, waving his arms as he lost control. "You said it, didn't you? I don't live here! This is your property!" he sneered. He was surprised when he saw anger flash in her eyes.

"This isn't my property!" she yelled as she took a step towards him, her hands balling into fists

He was taken aback. It wasn't very often someone was willing to stand up to him. He had a reputation in town of being someone who didn't back down from a fight, and he couldn't help being impressed, seeing her unafraid and ready to take him on. The little squirt had some fight in her.

"So you don't live here either," he challenged.

She slumped as if his words had wounded her. "I guess, I do - now," she muttered.

His stomach sank. If she lived here, she'd soon be running her mouth about him. He felt a pain in his chest as he realized it was over. He'd lost it. The only thing he cared about in the world was gone now.

"I'm out of here!" he growled, and brushed past her as he stalked away.

"Wait! Please don't go!" she cried, but he kept walking. "I don't care if you're not supposed to be here! I won't tell!" He slowed and then stopped. "I promise!"

He slowly turned to face her. While he searched her eyes, trying to decide if he should trust her, he knew it was a huge mistake to even consider it. He'd learned long ago there wasn't anyone he could trust. Even his own brothers had betrayed him, taking off as soon as they were old enough to escape, leaving him alone and at the mercy of his old man.

The oldest, D.J., had enlisted in the army on his eighteenth birthday. His middle brother, Stevie, hadn't even lasted that long. One bad night after he'd gotten into a fist fight with the old man, he'd run off, swearing he'd never come back. He'd been good to his word. Marty never heard from him again.

Stevie was fourteen then, the age Marty was now. How he'd managed to survive on his own over these last five years, Marty didn't know, nor did he care. Both brothers knew what the old man was like after he hit the bottle, and yet they'd left Marty to deal with it alone.

"Why should I trust you?" Marty demanded of the girl.

"Because – because you can," she said hesitantly. It almost sounded like a question, and he snorted and turned to leave. "Wait! I swear on my mother's grave I won't tell!"

He stopped short as the image of his own mother came into his mind, her body wasted away from the cancer that had taken hold of her. Once the symptoms had shown themselves, it was only a few months before she was so sick she could do little more than lie in bed. Marty knew it was bad when she couldn't even read to him anymore.

She'd died, leaving him the week after he'd turned six and his life had never been the same. With his brothers dealing with the loss in their own way, there was no one he could turn to for comfort. The only way he could handle the grief was to force himself not to think about her. And he hadn't for the last several years, at least not until now.

He carefully composed his face before he turned around. The girl's brown eyes steadily held his gaze, and while he searched them, he recognized something he'd seen many times in his own eyes. She'd been masking it well, but it was there, the pain just beneath the surface.

"Oh-kay," he said slowly, and her face lit up.

"Neat! I'm Jessica Blackwell, but you can call me Jess," she said confidently, closing the few feet between them and holding her hand out.

He looked at it while his stomach sank. She was old man Blackwell's niece. He took it, knowing he didn't have any other choice. He'd sealed his fate when he hadn't run away. All he could do now was hope she hadn't been lying when she'd sworn to keep her mouth shut.

"I'm Martin, but you can call me Marty," he said, barely able to keep the mocking tone out of his voice. He'd keep his last name to himself – not that it would keep him from getting caught if she blabbed.

"Pleased to meet you, Marty," she said, pumping his arm with a surprisingly firm grip. In spite of himself, he couldn't help thinking it was funny. He had to give her credit. The little squirt had moxie.

She continued to stand there, grinning at him until it became awkward. He wasn't used to talking to people, especially not girls. After a minute, he couldn't take it anymore. "Well, I have things to do," he said firmly. He headed back to the cabin, hoping she'd take the hint and leave.

"Like what?" she asked cheerfully, catching up with him.

His shoulders drooped as he realized she wasn't going to be so easy to get rid of. "Uh," he said, stalling while he tried to think.

Leaving was out of the question. It would be hours before the old man had drunk himself into a stupor and it was safe to return to his house. Going into town wasn't a possibility either since teen boys weren't allowed to hang around with nothing to do. He remembered the windows needed washing, but he wasn't about to let this girl see him cleaning. "I'm, uh – gathering firewood," he said, veering towards the trees.

"Really? That's neat!"

He ignored her, and walked several feet into the woods before picking up small branches. To his annoyance, she stayed with him, watching him.

"So," she said, drawing it out, "do you come here often?"

"No!" he barked, and glared at her. He didn't need her gathering information about him. She already knew too much. He turned his back to her, picking up more branches.

"I didn't think so. I've been here every day this week, and this is the first time I've seen you."

Hearing that, Marty's hand hesitated as he reached for a large stick. How had he'd missed seeing her the last time he'd been there?

"Don't you just love that little cabin? When I saw it, I thought it was so pretty! It's like a play house, like the house from Hansel and Gretel – only it's not made of candy, and without the creepy witch. I wish I'd found it a long time ago. When I first came here, I was too scared to go in the woods. It's so dark in here, and there's all these creepy noises!" she said, shivering dramatically.

Did she ever shut up, he wondered angrily as he moved further away from her.

"I didn't want to go in the woods but I just got so bored walking in the yard. All you can do is go around and around. Then last week, I saw this path behind the garage and I decided to take a chance and see where it went."

He knew exactly which path she was referring to. He'd used it occasionally to sneak up to Blackwell's mansion. The entrance to the path was hidden from view by the large garage, but he hadn't dared step out. Instead, he'd skirted around the edge of the woods to get a look at the big house.

He'd spied on them a few times but it was hardly worth it. He never saw anyone outside except for the groundskeeper. Even Douglas never came out, but then maybe rich people's homes were so nice they never felt the need to go outside.

"I'm so glad I decided to go down that path," she continued happily. "Now I love the woods! I guess it's time I got used to them since I've been living here for three months."

He turned to look at her. "You've lived here for three months?" he asked astonishment.

"Yeah. Why?"

"I, uh, haven't seen you in town."

He was surprised he hadn't seen her. The town wasn't a very large. Visitors always stuck out like a sore thumb. It was also the kind of place where everyone knew everybody else's business, but he hadn't heard a word about Blackwell's niece.

"Oh," she said, dropping her eyes. "I haven't been – out much." Then she turned away and started picking up twigs.

He expected her to keep talking, but for once, she was quiet, and as he resumed gathering wood, he wondered if her mother's death was the reason she'd come to live with her uncle. Then he heard a faint rustling noise in the trees, growing louder as it came closer to them.

Both of them straightened and turned just as a strong breeze made the trees overhead start swaying. The heat and humidity vanished as a cool burst of air hit them.

"Oh! Doesn't that feel great!" she exclaimed, grinning at him.

It did feel good, but he wasn't going to admit it. From the way the wind was picking up, he knew a storm was approaching. He started back towards the cabin without saying anything, but he glanced over his shoulder to make sure she was following him.

When they reached the cabin, he went in the kitchen and threw the wood he'd gathered into the old soap crate next to the wood stove. He stepped away, and she came forward and threw in the twigs she had in her hands. Thunder boomed loud and long, making the floor of the cabin shake as it rolled across the forest.  She looked at him with wide eyes, then a gust of wind blew through the cabin and the front door slammed shut with a loud bang, making them both jump.

He moved to close the back door, then quickly went around closing the windows before the rain started. When he returned to the kitchen he was surprised to see the girl hugging herself, her body shaking, goose bumps covering her skinny arms.

"Are you cold?" he asked, and she nodded.

It figures, he thought. The temperature had dropped dramatically and the squirt had hardly any meat on her bones. "Here," he said taking one of the stools out from the table and putting it near the cook stove. "Have a seat."

She sat, still hugging herself, and he put some twigs into the stove's fire box along with crumpled newspaper. He struck a match and she leaned forward to watch the flames take hold. Soon he had a small fire going and he fed it, putting in wood a piece at a time just as rain began drumming on the roof.

Once the fire was established, he was going to close the fire box door when he looked at her. Her body was still trembling as she leaned close to the stove, watching the flames with fascination, and he decided to leave it open.

"Do you want some tea?" he asked, and she looked startled.

"But you'll have to go outside to get the water!"

"No, I won't. There's a pump right there," he said, shocked he had to point out the obvious.

"That's broken," she said with certainty.

"What? No, it isn't." He took the kettle over to it and began pumping the handle. When water began pouring out, she looked at him like he'd just performed a miracle.

"How did you do that?"

"You just pump the handle. Don't you know you have to prime the pump?"

"No."

He couldn't believe it. He thought everyone knew how pumps worked. "Where are you from anyway?"

"Manhattan."

"You mean – New York City?" When she nodded, he let out a low whistle and shook his head. "That's a big city." He'd seen it plenty of times in movies. He couldn't imagine what it must be like to live in a city that big, but it made sense now. She was a city girl.

He looked at the rain hitting the windows while he filled the kettle and then he suddenly felt sick as a thought occurred to him. "Aren't they going to be worried you're out in the rain and come looking for you?" he asked.

"No one knows I'm out." When she saw the look on his face, she added, "No one's at home. It's the housekeeper's day off and Uncle Jonathon is at work. He won't be home until late tonight."

"What about – your cousin," he asked, not wanting to say his name.

A look crossed her face before she turned back to the fire. "He's in France for the month," she muttered.

She hated him too, Marty thought, but he wasn't surprised. Douglas Blackwell was an arrogant ass.

He put the kettle on the stove then got two mugs ready with tea bags. With nothing left to do, he pulled up a stool and sat beside her. He was glad to see she had stopped shaking and was no longer had goose bumps covering her. Then her stomach grumbled loudly, and she hugged herself while he pretended not to notice. When it grumbled again a moment later, he remembered his sandwiches in the paper bag.

"Are you hungry?" he said, standing to fetch his paper bag.

"No," she said, but her stomach grumbled loudly again. "Not really," she clarified, looking sheepish.

He fished out a sandwich and held it out to her. "Here." She looked at it, but didn't move. "Go on, it's peanut butter and jelly."

"I don't want to eat your food. I mean, it's your sandwich," she said with a worried expression.

"I have two more, see?" he said, taking them out to show her.

"Are you sure?" she asked, appearing torn.

"Of course," he said, smiling to reassure her.

"Well – okay." She smiled with relief as she took it. "Thank you, Marty."

"It's nothing," he said.

He sat on his stool, and began unwrapping the wax paper on his sandwich. He didn't want her thinking he didn't get enough to eat, even if it was sometimes true. He didn't need her pity. He got plenty of that in town. It was no secret his old man was a drunk. When he'd be walking down the sidewalks, he'd sometimes catch people, mostly women, looking at him like he was a lost puppy. He hated that.

"Oh, it's so good! It's the best sandwich I've had in a long time!" she said after she'd taken a bite.

He studied her, skeptical she would get so excited over a simple sandwich.

"We don't have peanut butter in the house. Uncle Jonathon doesn't like it," she explained when she saw his expression. "I've missed it so much," she added with a dramatic sigh.

He turned his attention back to his sandwich to hide his expression. He thought rich kids got to eat whatever they wanted.

The water started boiling and he got up. While he was pouring it in their mugs, she surprised him by moving their stools over to the table. Then she sat, placing her sandwich in front of her on the square of wax paper. She smiled up at him with her goofy grin when he set the mugs on the table. "It's okay if we eat here, right?" she said, her eyes filled with hope.

"Uh, sure," he said, but as he sat, it felt weird. He'd never imagined he'd be eating a meal with someone at this table. But then, he didn't know the last time he'd sat at a table to share a meal with anyone. He didn't even eat with the other kids at school. Long ago he'd made a point of eating outside by himself. It kept the other kids from seeing how little he had, or from noticing the days he had nothing.

"Neat!" she said cheerfully. "I thought this would be easier than holding everything on our laps."

He kept quiet, hunching over his sandwiches.

When she sipped the tea, she said, "I never had tea without milk and sugar before but this is really good! Thanks for making this for me!"

He didn't meet her eyes as he drank his own tea. He'd never had it with milk and sugar.

When they'd finished eating, Marty stood and reached for her mug.

"Oh, no, Marty! Let me wash them. It's the least I can do after you shared your lunch with me."

Before he could reply, she'd taken their mugs to the washbasin and opened the cupboard where he kept the dish soap. How did she know where it was, he wondered, damping down the stove to kill the fire. And then he remembered.  She'd been coming to the cabin for a week already.

While she pumped the handle to get water for washing, he opened the back door. A cool breeze came through the warm kitchen and he leaned against the door frame. By now, the storm had passed and water droplets sparkled as they dripped off the eaves of the roof. In the clearing the grass glittered under the sunlight.

"It's so beautiful," she said with wonder in her voice, and he realized she was standing next to him, wiping her hands on a dish towel. "It's not like this in the city." She looked up at him with a smile, and then he caught a flash of sadness in her eyes before she turned to hang the towel on a hook over the washbasin.

"I should probably go," she said when she turned around, the pain in her eyes masked again. "I don't want anyone to know I've been out. I never told my uncle I found the cabin. I was afraid he'd tell me I couldn't come here. He – doesn't like me to be away from the house."

Marty didn't quite know what to say to that. It seemed so odd, but it explained why she hadn't been to town yet.

She stuck her hand out. "Good bye, Marty."

He looked at it and then up into her brown eyes. "C'mon, squirt. I'll walk with you," he said, pushing off the door frame.

She looked startled, and then her face lit up. "Okay!" she said, smiling her goofy grin at him.

During the walk on the path that led to her house, he was grateful she didn't talk his ear off. Instead, she seemed absorbed with the view, looking all around as the dappled sunlight made everything in the wet forest sparkle.

He stopped just before the curve that would bring the back of the garage into view, and she turned towards him, sticking her hand out again. "Good bye, Marty. I hope it's okay if I visit you again."

He couldn't hold back his smile, thinking it was funny she was asking for permission to visit the cabin. "Sure, squirt," he said while she pumped his arm with her firm grip.

"Neat!" she said, grinning her goofy grin.

He let go of her hand and she turned, disappearing around the curve. He stayed for a long moment, watching the spot before shoving his hands in the pockets of his jeans. As he walked back to the cabin, he thought about the windows that needed washing.