DRAWN

DRAWN, Chapter 2

2

"Oh, God." Dad clutches the steering wheel of our tiny orange car. He veers toward our exit, then back into the roundabout traffic, passing the castle sign for the third time. Horns sound. "Sorry!" he shouts, as if the drivers can hear him. 

Dad's dubbed this car our "Clockwork Orange" because it's like a little wind-up toy. But right now it feels more like an instrument of death. He has definitely not mastered the art of driving on the wrong side of the road from the wrong side of the car. 

"Dad, you have to get off this circle." My stomach makes an unpleasant sound. "Or just stop." My window is open but the fresh air doesn't seem to be helping. I look at the cone hat in my lap. It'd make a fancy barf bag. 

"I'm doing it this time." The car points toward the exit at last. "See?" He gives me the thumbs-up. 

A horn blares. To our right, a rusty brown truck appears seemingly from nowhere. Dad swerves to the left. The truck zooms by. The driver leans on his horn and holds out a finger. It is most definitely not a thumbs-up. 

Our car veers sharply onto the exit's shoulder and rolls to a stop. I hear the unmistakable hiss of a tire letting out its final breath. Behind us, a car's doors slam. "Need some assistance?" a refined British voice calls. 

"Yes!" Dad cuts the engine and opens the door. 

I grab his arm. "Where are you going?" 

"Somebody's got to change the tire." 

"Dressed like that?" He's wearing green tights and a black tunic, along with knee-high black boots. It's supposed to be a nobleman's costume but he looks more like a drag queen. 

"Afraid I'll get a run in my stocking?" He steps out. In the rearview mirror I see an older gentleman dressed up as a thinner version of King Henry VIII and another younger guy in a blue Prince Charming-type outfit approaching. Horns toot. Someone shouts from a passing car, "Oi oi, nice pair of stems." 

"Hello." It's Prince Charming leaning down to my window. He's even more charming-gorgeous, in fact-up close. Long black lashes surround his sky-blue eyes. 

I tuck a ringlet behind my ear. "Uh. Erm." I'm completely incoherent. Those eyes. That accent. It's too much. 

"Are you all right?" he asks. 

I gulp and shake my head. 

"You're not all right?" 

I nod. Then I shake my head again. Then I want to disappear. 

"Right. Well, my name is William." 

"Michelle," I say. It sounds like a gasp. 

Long, awkward pause. 

"William, lend a hand," his father orders. 

"Yes, sir," he says, waves to me and walks away. 

And I put the cone hat over my face. 

With William and his father helping my dad, we're soon on our way. We pull out after their sleek black car and follow them toward the castle. Dad fills me in on all the gory details. How William is actually William Wallingford, as in the Wallingfords of Wallingford Academy. "His father is obviously a terribly important man. He's a big solicitor-that's a lawyer." 

"So he owns the school?" 

"I think his family helped found it or something. It was started several hundred years ago on the philosophy of 'The Best Win,' and we definitely want to be one of 'the best.'" 

Our car turns a bend, and rising above the trees is a stone turret connected by a wall to another turret, then another. It's huge. I had no idea. 

Dad parks the car in the nearly full lot. "That sure is impressive," he says, nodding at the castle. "Nothing like that back in New Jersey. Unless you count the Trenton Prison." 

As I get out of the car, I pop the hat on my head. My vision travels up the steep wall to the top where blue and red flags snap in the wind. I have to sketch this. Do a painting. Or maybe I'll do a block print instead to emphasize the castle's simplicity. The black and white starkness of my print starts to form in my brain. 

"Milady," William says, suddenly at my side. He grins, does a ridiculous bow and offers me his arm. I smile and take it, trying my best to act casual. "I've never been to America," he says. 

"I have." No duh. My cheeks sting. 

"Ever been to a castle before?" 

I shake my head. 

"Well, mostly they're just a gloomy pile of rocks. Quite dull. Quite for tourists, Americans such as yourself, to be amused by. But this one is a real beauty." He stares at me. As I feel a blush rise on my cheeks, I quickly look away. 

My dad and Mr. Wallingford are a few yards ahead of us when Mr. Wallingford turns. Even from this distance I can see that he has glittering blue eyes lined with black eyelashes, just like William's. He says in a sharp voice, "William, don't dawdle. We are late as it is." 

"Yes, sir." William raises his chin. I notice our pace slow and my dad and Mr. Wallingford are soon out of sight. 

We pass a rusty brown truck. "Look, that's the one that cut our car off." 

William's face contorts into a sneer. "That's Roger Mortley's piece of rubbish. Well-suited to him." 

"Is he a student at the Academy?" 

"A charity case," he says with obvious distaste. 

"Huh." I let go of his arm and step back. 

"What is it?" He gives me a puzzled look. 

"It's, well, nothing. Go on without me. I forgot something in the car." 

"Oh." He glances toward the castle as if expecting his father to pop back into view. "You're quite certain? I could wait." 

"Go. Please. I'll be fine." 

He nods and quicksteps ahead, following the red crushed stone path. 

I collapse against the truck. What if he knew about my own family's past financial woes? My brother Wayne's outrageous medical bills? The free holiday dinner delivered to our house from the Lion's Club? I imagine William's gorgeous face contorting with disgust. My family is clearly not one of 'the best.' Fortunately, my dad is one of the best when it comes to literary criticism. His article on Edgar Allan Poe definitely got the Academy's attention. 

I take a few more moments to try to get my act together, reminding myself over and over that no one will know anything about my past unless I'm stupid enough to tell them. 

Okay. Be brave. 

I follow the path and cross a stone bridge over a dry moat bed. Enter a high arched gateway where the stone flooring is worn into grooves, probably from centuries of carts rolling through. The passage is dark and chilled. I hug my arms, hurry toward the brightness beyond and arrive at a vast open courtyard. It's grassy and surrounded on all sides by the massive walls with various styles of stone buildings attached to them. The late afternoon sun slants over the top of one wall, casting a gloomy shadow on half of the green. 

It's quiet. It's like I'm the only one in the entire castle. A gust swirls around my dress and stirs the lace hanging from my hat. There's a tingle along the back of my neck. 

My heart starts to race. I am not alone.