The Mandala Girl (COMPLETED)

Chapter 1

(This book is now available in paperback and eBook on Amazon. Go to Amazon's search bar and type "The Mandala Girl" or "Troy Dearbourne" to locate them.)

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I always knew that I was destined for great things, to be the best of the best and nothing less.

People scream my name and clap their hands together as I place a pair of black high heels on the red carpet and step out of the limousine. From all around me, the burst of white camera flash blinds my eyes, but a pair of wayfarer-style sunglasses quickly resolves the issue. I feel like a million dollars in my ruby colored knee-high dress and white mink coat. I've been waiting for this night my entire life.

I press my way through the ocean of people and across the red carpet. Reporters jam recording devices and microphones in my face, while fans reach out with a pen and paper and beg for my autograph. Instead of giving in to their pleas, I pass by them with a polite smile. There will be time for a meet and greet later on.

The double doors swing open and I walk across the milky white floors of the art gallery, stopping somewhere near the center of the room to savor the moment. From every angle encompassing me, the walls are decked with paintings—my paintings. All of them. My entire life's work is on display for the whole world to see, to enjoy, and best of all—to buy! It's a dream come true.

Guests adorned in formal attire filter through the entrance doors and peruse the gallery, moving from painting to painting. Excited chatter trickles throughout the gallery. After an hour or so, the guests move from the main viewing area and into the bidding room, where they take a seat in one of the many rows of plush theater chairs. Facing the rows of chairs is a small stage with a podium. An auctioneer stands behind the podium waiting for the bidding to initiate.

After the guests are settled in, a woman brings the first painting to the stage; a watercolor portrait of a little girl collecting seashells on a sandy shore. The guests murmur amongst themselves, clearly pleased with what they see.

The auctioneer introduces the piece and straightway commends the artistic talent and creativity involved. "We'll start the bidding at twenty-five thousand dollars," he says. "Do I hear twenty-six?" He scans the crowd for anyone with a raised bidder's paddle. My heart skips a hard beat at the sight of the first paddle being thrust skyward, then another, and another. The bidding soon increases, propelling the price of the painting higher and higher until no more paddles are visible. The auctioneer slams the gavel down on the podium. "Sold! For two hundred and forty thousand dollars!"

All of the guests rise to their feet and applaud, chanting my name with power in their voices. "Ri-ley! Ri-ley! Ri-ley!"

"Riley? Earth to Riley," a distant voice calls out, yanking me from my daydream. "Riley!"

I look up to see Mr. Andersen, aka "Cubby", our art teacher, staring down at my five and a half foot tall height. His disapproving eyes shift to the canvas in front of me. A blank canvas, I should add.

Twelve of us students are positioned in a circle with a bowl of fruit in the center. I'm standing at the five o' clock position. A window directly across from me is at the eleven o' clock position, clothing the bowl of fruit in the afternoon light.

Over the last twenty-five minutes, I had attempted to draw the fruit pieces, then the bowl, and then self-doubt would plague me. I would yank that canvas off the easel and put a fresh one in its place—the process repeating about a half a dozen times.

It's official. I'm ready to yank my hair out.

"Having trouble finding inspiration today, Riley?" Mr. Andersen says.