DRAWN

DRAWN, Chapter 1

Drawn

Marie Lamba

Publisher

Lamba Associates, Inc.

P.O. Box 415

Doylestown, PA 18901

Copyright © 2012 Marie Lamba

Cover copyright © 2012 Marie Lamba

Book design and layout copyright © 2012 52 Novels

www.marielamba.com 

Email with inquiries to: marielamba@hotmail.com

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Marie Lamba.

Edition: January 2012

This one's for my wonderful girls

Adria and Cari Lamba

and Louisa and Jacqueline Busterna

1

I pull the zipper up the back, sealing myself into the dress. All maroon velvet, with lace along the low neckline. Long, full skirt and tight sleeves ending in a point over each hand. This is so not me. 

I cast a longing look at the soft jeans I'd tossed onto my bed, and at my sketchbook. Especially at my sketchbook. On it is a quick drawing I did of some imaginary guy seen from the back. He's wearing a loose shirt and his dark hair reaches his shoulders-shoulders that seem almost alive with tension. Even though the sketch is just a few strokes of a pencil, there's something about it. I find myself looking at it over and over again. 

If only he'd turn around. 

Okay, that's a weird thought. 

It's also pretty weird that I'm playing dress up for some party. 

"That's it. I'm done." I try to yank down the zipper. It doesn't budge. Crap. "Dad? Could you come here a minute?" 

We're in a two-story house, part of a twin, or a "semi-detached" as the British call it. I hear the creak of his steps along the floorboards leading to my room. Dad enters and I feel a flurry of panic. With me in this ridiculous huge dress and now my dad hovering, the bedroom feels much too full. I hate small spaces. 

"Oh, Michelle." Dad takes my hands in his and tilts his head to the side. "You are an absolute vision." 

I roll my eyes. A dad sees what he wants. 

"I mean it." He squeezes my fingers. "You look so much like your mother." 

I twirl toward the mirror standing in the corner and I expect to see staring back at me Madame Florabunda, psychic extraordinaire (AKA my mom). But it's just me. Mousy brown hair with unpredictable waves and curls. Plain brown eyes, just like my dad's (except mine are a little too large for my face). Not that I wouldn't kill to be as beautiful as my mom. She's got jet-black hair and intense hazel eyes and a gorgeous, curvy figure. Oh, and she's nuts. Did I mention that? 

At once I remember how Mom held my chin in her hand and said, "Shelly, honey, you are so like me. You've got the power, just like me. Just like your brother." She's wrong. I don't. I never will. I want to be as unlike her and my older brother Wayne as I possibly can. It's kind of my life's goal. 

After that little chat with my mom, she left to answer "a calling." And hasn't called us for over a year. 

Suddenly it's like the heavy fabric is pressing in on me, as if the dress is becoming smaller and smaller. "Dad, help with the zipper. Please." 

Dad squints. "But I think it's up all the way." 

"I need it down. I'm not wearing this thing. Maybe I'll just stay here." 

"Shelly, come on. I brought your mother's dress especially for this." He sinks onto the bed, his knees cracking and the duvet poofing around him. "You know we have to go to this dinner. Anyway, you'll finally get to see the castle. That's got to appeal to the artist in you." 

"Maybe." Instead of just having the dinner at the school, the Academy rented out the town's castle for the night. 

"And most of the students will be there. Everyone will be in period costume." 

"Oh, yeah? What time period is that from?" I nod at his tan slacks and white button-down shirt. 

"I'm changing in a minute. Headmistress Hunter's secretary dropped off a costume for me." 

"Well, then, why couldn't she drop off one for me so I wouldn't have to wear this?" I tug at the zipper again. No luck. 

"Actually, she did drop off something. Hang on." He springs off the bed and leaves, returning a moment later with a large maroon cone that has a bit of purple scarf hanging from the tip. 

"What is that?" I ask. 

"Your hat." 

"No." I cross my arms. 

"Please, Michelle. The Headmistress sent it over special. We don't want to upset her." 

I bite my lip. From what my dad's told me, this Headmistress is a real stickler for rules and for upholding the traditions and reputation of the school. If she likes my dad enough, she might offer him a permanent teaching position at the Academy, which would be amazing. The two of us have only been in England for a few days, yet I'm already convinced it's the best place in the universe. Not because of the quaint little shops or everyone's adorable English accent, or even because of this supposedly grand castle on the edge of town. No. This place is perfect because here no one knows that back in New Jersey my family, the De Freccio's, are called the De Freak-o's. 

My dad's eyebrows are drawn together. He looks almost lost, like he has so many times over this past year. I'm not the only one who needs a new beginning. 

I sigh and stick out my hand for the hat. As my dad gives it to me, my eyes again stray to the drawing of that guy. In the sketch I can now see the very edge of his cheek. It's as if he's just turned ever so slightly toward me. 

But that's crazy.