The Earth Painter

  The Earth Painter

  © 2012 Melissa Turner Lee

  Cover Design Copyright © 2012 by Marcy Rachel

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system without the prior written permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this novel are fictitious and are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead are entirely coincidental.

  For my parents Ervalee and Austin. Dad, I wish you were here to see this.

  Acknowledgements

  First, I thank Jesus for loving me before I loved Him and making me feel valued no matter what anyone on the planet might think of me.

  I want to thank the following people who have made this journey possible. Without you, The Earth Painter would be nothing more than a file on my computer.

  My husband Pao, who often stays home with the boys while I go off to write. I love you more now than ever. My dear friend, Kimberly Henderson—who kept encouraging me through all the rejections. Your prayers have availed much. Pauline Creeden, you rock. You can write, edit and are a formatting ninja. So blessed to call you a friend and fellow Whovian.

  The Earth Painter

  Book 1 of The Painter Series

  Preface

  Black velvet enveloped me as I tucked myself into the shadowy folds of the stage curtain. He climbed the ladder to the catwalk, two rungs at a time, unaware that I was watching. The only light penetrating the darkness came from the small, solitary bulb that burned in every auditorium by tradition—left on for the ghost. I pressed myself deeper into the curtain and held my breath, too terrified to make a sound. The damp tongue like fabric licked my nose and cheeks, dislodging small dust clouds from the curtain with each unintended rustle. When I finally allowed myself to breathe, dust and the strong smell of mildew rushed up my nostrils. I grabbed my nose and mouth and fully halted the sneeze.

  The moment he was out of sight, I sprang from my hiding place and clambered up the ladder. He was stepping out onto the catwalk of the highest levels of the stage’s fly system. I reached the top, but he wasn’t there. Warm sunlight shone from an opened door at the end of the walk. I crept to it and braced myself against the wall before peeking outside. I expected to see the rooftop, but what I saw was impossible. They couldn’t be walking around alive above the auditorium. Everyone — the whole world knew they were dead, but there they were, alive right in front me.

  I jumped backwards, pressing myself against the wall. I tried to stand. My mind screamed— RUN, but I couldn’t will myself to move. My knees buckled as I crumpled into a pile while my elbows knocked rhythmically against the wall behind me echoing the deafening thumping of my pulse.

  I looked up, inhaled quickly, and held it. He was standing over me, and he wasn’t alone.

  Chapter 1

  I averted my eyes from my reflection as usual. But there I was — translucent — ghostlike. In the trophy-case glass, I stared at myself between the same two perfect people I looked at every morning—only they were younger, even more perfect.

  “Holly, so you’re Heather and Randall’s daughter? Man, that brings back memories. See that trophy right there. That was the first time Chesnee High School won a state championship football game, thanks to your dad.”

  I didn’t look at Principal Howard when I answered. “Yes, I’ve heard the story.”

  “And your mom…Heather…W-O-W.”

  I couldn’t help but look at him this time. The growl when he said my mother’s name made my face contort in pure disgust. “Sorry.” He grimaced. “Just for a minute, I was a seventeen year old boy again and not old Mr. Howard.”

  He glanced at my beautiful, almost raven-haired mom’s photo in the case again and then at flaming –haired and freckled me. He was probably wondering if I were adopted. People asked that a lot.

  I gazed back at my mom—smiling ear to ear. That Homecoming crown probably never needed pins. It knew where it belonged, which was more than I knew. And if it didn’t, I’m sure she set it straight on the matter. She still looked the same too—older, of course, but forever the beauty queen. Her blue eyes and bright smile were too much for me that early in the morning—not to mention her sleek brown hair. She’d never had a bad hair day whereas I had a bad hair life.

  “Last I heard your folks were living the high life down near the coast in Charleston. What made them give all that up to move back to Chesnee?”

  I looked at him trying to remember the answer my mom told me to say. I could feel the pressure pushing down on my shoulders just as it had that morning when my mom grilled me. You are a reflection on your father and me. Remember who you are.

  The exact words I’d been given came pouring out like lines from a poorly rehearsed play. “After years of chasing the American dream, they… decided it was time to get off the treadmill…and… get back to basics.” I looked at my feet, unable to handle his stare any longer as I recited my mom’s answer. Always a pageant answer— a slight untruth with a lofty spin to it. I continued with the rest. “You know, focus on what really matters.” Because heaven forbid people think anything, but sunshine and roses ever touched Heather Scruggs.

  I finally made eye contact with him. Principal Howard stared at me with a blank look on his face. “Well I’m sure this will be a great senior year for you once you settle in.” Mr. Howard ushered me to my homeroom class and introduced me to my teacher. I looked around at the other students as I shuffled to my seat. The last time I’d changed schools I was eight. Mom wanted me in the prep school where all her friend’s children went. Making new friends was a lot easier then, especially when my mom was already friends with the other kids’ moms. Here, I knew no one.

  When we stood for the pledge in homeroom, I automatically checked out everybody’s shoes. Back in private school, where everybody wore the same uniform, Mom had taught me that shoes were how you knew another’s worth. “That’s how you know if they’re worth talking to. No need wasting your time on a scholarship handout case,” she would always say. Mom always insisted I wear a new pair of BCBG’s on the first day—to make sure I was worth talking to. Of course, that was before my dad lost his job—no wait, got off the treadmill and got back to basics. My stomach lurched, and the gray aura of an approaching migraine surrounded me. I squinted as the florescent lights grew brighter and brighter. I’d have to pop a couple headache pills when I got a chance.

  There were three guys in the back wearing cowboy boots. I gave them the once over, No one in Charleston dressed like that. Their long leather jackets, oversized belt buckles and cowboy hats looked like something off CMT or maybe I’d just been unaware that they formed posies here in Chesnee.

  The girl next to me with the black Converse tennis shoes and black eyeliner was rocking the full Emo look. But most people wore low-end name brands or knockoffs. Mom would not approve of any of these as potential friends, but her way of choosing friends hadn’t worked out for me or her either, in the end.

  I pulled my Kindle from my backpack and read until the bell, a trick I’d picked up to avoid people when my friends had turned on me back in Charleston. Hiding behind my book, set the pattern for how I spent the rest of the day—find my class, read until it started, take notes, then read until the next bell. Reading made you look smart and gave you a reason to be quiet. If I didn’t say anything, I couldn’t say the wrong thing; which, according to my mom, I had a habit of doing. Shaming my mom and headaches were the two constants of my life.

  It wasn’t until fourth-period that I caught the mistake. My head throbbed from behin
d my eyes to the base of my skull by then. I dug the Excedrin and bottled water from my bag to wash down the pills before looking at my schedule. “Drama Club? What the…”

  I looked up at the double wooden doors of the auditorium. My heart sank deep into my stomach as nausea rolled through me. How had I ended up in drama? I thought back over the classes I’d signed up for at Charleston Academy. I’d picked theater history as an elective, but that was a history class, not a drama class. “Are you lost?” A deep voice asked interrupting my reverie.

  I followed the sound to see a skinny African American guy in a letterman jacket.

  “No,” I cleared my throat. My voice had grown gruff from lack of use. “Not lost, but definitely in the wrong place.”

  He tilted his head, apparently confused by my statement.

  “I just moved here, and the office must have screwed up my schedule. Apparently, I’m in Drama Club. Acting on a stage in front of everybody,” I shook my head, “so not my thing.”

  The boy smiled and pushed the door open. “I’m not actually into acting either. I’m here for the easy-A and no homework. I’m Anthony, by the way.”

  “Holly.”

  I followed him into the cavernous auditorium. A damp, musty smell rushed up my nostrils. Its earthiness reminded me of Grandma’s basement. My eyes adjusted as we approached the front where students already sat a few rows from the dimly lit stage.

  Anthony sat next to a big guy, also in a letterman jacket, while I chose a seat further away from everyone and pulled out my Kindle. A few minutes later, a sing-songy voice floated down the aisle from behind me.

  “Welcome, welcome, welcome everyone. I’m your drama coach, Ms. Jones.” I looked up when she reached the front. She looked exactly the way she sounded—clownish makeup, wild eyes, long blond hair and dressed way too young for her age. It was then I noticed the sandy-haired boy sitting on the stage behind her, hanging his feet over the orchestra pit.

  “Oh, goody!” Ms. Jones clapped her hands. “Newbies!”

  I slithered deeper into my seat. They didn’t make an Excedrin strong enough for this. What a nightmare.

  “We’re all going to introduce ourselves. Tell your name and grade and any acting experience you have, starting with the new girl holding the big calculator.”

  I didn’t realize she was talking about me, until I noticed her gawking in my direction. Everyone else in the class soon followed suit, obviously sizing me up. I sat up and surveyed the room—watching them watch me. Clearing my throat, I gave my basic information. Not all the crap Mom would want me to say about myself—things that would prop up my qualities like a good push-up bra and smooth down my flaws like Spanx—all smoke and mirrors—none of it real, but the truth. I sucked at being fake.

  The teacher gave me a quick smile and then moved on to the other students, who all happily shared their information. Well, all except for the boy on the stage. The unfairness of it chafed me. Why did he get to be invisible while sitting right up front, and I had to go first when I’d strategically positioned myself in the back? I almost voiced my complaint but decided against it. Why risk getting on someone’s bad side on the first day?

  “Today, we will start with some movement exercise so everybody, up, up, up on the stage.”

  Groans and mumbles buzzed above the crowd as everyone shuffled their way to the stage. We all stood staring down at Ms. Jones, except for the sandy-haired boy. He still sat on the floor, but had spun around to watch us. What made him so special?

  Ms. Jones clapped her hands. “Now pair up.” I stumbled over to a blonde girl just as another girl ran over and scooped her into a bearhug. Nervously searching for anyone else, I was mortified to see that only the boy and I were left. At least now he’d have to participate. I was headed towards him when Ms. Jones stopped me.

  “Oh dear, oh dear. This will not do.” Ms. Jones’s buggy eyes glared at me. “I’ll come pair with you.”

  Ok, it was bad enough being the new kid, but I was not about to be paired with the teacher. “What about him?” I pointed to the boy still seated on the stage. His eyes grew, until they were the size of saucers.

  “Who?”

  “The boy sitting right here!” I was practically standing over him, pointing down at him.

  Ms. Jones looked confused as she followed my gesture. Suddenly she jumped back. “Oh! How long have you been sitting there? I…I didn’t see you.”

  The boy smiled, revealing perfectly placed dimples on each cheek. “Me?”

  “I’m so sorry. I didn’t notice you there.” Ms. Jones seemed confused and out of breath. “What’s your name?”

  “Theo,” he answered, still smiling as he stood.

  “Well go stand with...with…” She pointed at me and snapped.

  “Holly,” I reminded her.

  “Yes, go stand with Holly.” She turned her attention back to the class. “Now, what I want you to do is face each other. One of you will move your arms, head, and etcetera but do not leave your spot. The other person will mirror the movement.”

  Theo grinned down at me, his brows furrowed over his gray-blue eyes as if he were trying to figure something out.

  “Begin!” Ms. Jones announced.

  “You go first,” I whispered.

  Theo put his hand up, and I copied his movement. I couldn’t help noticing how he scrutinized my face. “What’s with the staring? You never saw freckles before?”

  “I have. That’s not it. I’m trying to figure out why you noticed me. People never notice me.” He looked around and then leaned in to whisper, “You are human…right?”

  “Change!” Ms. Jones called.

  My mouth fell opened. Was he nuts? How was I supposed to answer a question like that?

  Balling my hands into fists on my hips, I said, “What’s the matter with you?”

  When he put his hands on his hips, I realized he was still doing the mirroring exercise.

  Ms. Jones suddenly yelled and clapped. “I love this. Love it! Everybody look at Holly and her partner. They aren’t just moving, they are conveying emotion with it. Brilliant!”

  I went back to doing normal movements. And Theo continued to stare at me. “You look so familiar. I heard you say you just moved here, but did you move back? I mean did you live here before…a long time ago maybe?”

  “No.” I half smiled and then bit my lip. He was exceptionally good looking. I’d been too irritated to notice at first, but the more I looked at him the warmer my cheeks got. The way he stared at me didn’t help either. It was intense and inquisitive, and he was too close. We weren’t touchy-feely at my house, so this invasion into my personal space was especially uncomfortable.

  “So you’ve never been here before?” His gray-blue eyes studied me even more.

  “Well…um…I’ve been to Chesnee before—to visit my grandmother before she died. Maybe you saw me around town then.”

  He shook his head. “No, that’s not it. I’ve seen you up close, like this. I remember your eyes. They’re the color of the sea—just inside a coral reef, and your freckles are like the stones of a volcanic island scattered along the sand. Your hair is like the sun setting over the water, shooting out orange rays in all directions.” He stared into my eyes even deeper. “You’re very pretty.”

  The impact of his words slammed into me. I’d braced myself for an insult. That’s what I was used to. This was either the way he came on to girls for a hook-up, or more likely, some mean joke to get a good laugh going with the other kids. I knew those kinds of tricks. Those were the kinds of things the kids I used to hang with did all the time. In the end, they did them to me too when I no longer belonged in their circle. My hands trembled, and my lips drew up to hold in the anger, but I refused to cry in front of him. I wanted to call him on his prank. I knew better than to think it was a real compliment, but I couldn’t think of anything clever to say.

  The tears were coming despite my efforts. “Forget this!” I shouted as I ran off the stage. I could fe
el everyone staring as I grabbed my backpack and made for the door. My head throbbed from ear to ear. I was dropping the class, and that was final.

  Chapter 2

  “Mom, you’ve got to call the school and fix this,” I wet a washcloth in the bathroom sink for my head. “I cannot be in Drama Club. You know how I stress out when I have to talk to people.” I stepped out of the bathroom and saw Mom on a stepladder hanging curtains. I then noticed the living room was no longer the same out of date color that it had been that morning.

  “Drama isn’t so bad. You might like being on stage, having every eye on you—being absolutely adored.” For a second, she stopped, stood still and let out a sigh. “If they’d offered it back in my day, I’m sure I would have loved it.”

  Of course, she would.

  “Mom, you know I hate crowds and get tongue-tied. I never know what to say to people.”

  “True,” She answered flatly, as she stepped down obviously trying to get a better look at the curtains and the wall. “Lovely.” The pride in her voice oozed like melted butter as she examined her beautiful workmanship. Everything associated with her had to be beautiful. She turned to look at me. The satisfaction faded from her face, and her shoulders sagged a little—but not too much. She was far too conscientious of her posture for that.

  Her face twisted as she seemed to notice me holding the cloth to my forehead. “Another headache?”

  I nodded and sat on the loveseat.

  “Sweetie, did you ask if they had anything else?” She sounded a little more sympathetic than before.

  “Yes, but the only other class with an opening was home arts.” I wouldn’t mind taking it, but I knew how she felt about it.

  “No, that’s not the kind of class that looks good on a college resume.”

  The sympathy had passed.

  “Drama sounds better, even if all you ever do is work as a stagehand, which I’m guessing, is what you’ll end up doing.” She pushed the couch back against the wall. “I mean you’re no star. Best to realize that early. Work with what you’ve got and make the best of it.”