walks around me while I stand in the center of the principal's office. She strokes my hair and pulls back my slouched shoulders. "Absolutely perfect. I agree, she should definitely be submitted. I'll notify her parents immediately…"
The next day, a bright pink band holding four sparkling diamonds circled my wrist. I officially became a candidate in The Program. Later, my family ties unraveled. Mom and Dad had the worst fight ever. In the middle of the night, Mom placed Daniel and me in a taxi shuttle, and the three of us left for California. Without Dad.
4
KISMET UNLEASHED
A n endless chirping from the oak tree outside my window woke me long before the alarm. I wished for a cat—a hungry one. I blew a long, noisy breath and kicked my covers to the floor in frustration. Staring at the ceiling, I studied how the lavender and gray shadows gave the sponge-painted clouds a realistic appearance.
Mom loved to "express herself" by painting murals on our walls to make our bedrooms our own private world instead of just a room within the house. Daniel's room once resembled a pirate's ship with his bed beneath a huge mast sporting a skull and cross-bones that scared the crap out of me when I opened the door.
Considered "the princess," my room had been painted to resemble a castle, my bedroom door a drawbridge, my bathroom one centered in a turret. Painted stone balusters joined at the window seat to look like a balcony, and out my window, the view of my kingdom. The ceiling was my sky, complete with stars painted in glow-in-the-dark silver paint scattered between the clouds.
When I returned to Ohio after an incident caused an immediate change in custody, I no longer believed in fairytales. Dad and I painted my room a dusty purple, replaced the frilly bedspread with a dark plum and white polka-dot comforter, and tossed the satin accent pillows. Large hot pink, lime green, and black furry pillows took their place. The only thing I couldn't change was my "sky." Even after all these years, the stars still shone when the lights went out. I believed in wishing on the first star of the night and if I didn't get a chance to do so on a real one, I'd pick a fake one to hang my hopes on. The one directly over my head held last night's wish, the same one for the past several weeks. One that apparently wasn't coming true.
A wayward beam from the rising sun sliced across the opposite wall spotlighting the poster of a prima ballerina in a deep bow, my old ballet shoes draped off the corner of the frame. Mom started me in ballet lessons at age six and when I started loving animals more than pirouettes, she pushed my dance teacher to advance me to the pointe troupe in hopes I'd shed my tomboyish tendencies. The shoes killed my feet and the longer Saturday lessons stole the time I usually spent helping Dad at the clinic. When I cut ties from my mother and returned to Maple Heights, I left my shoes behind.
Of course she mailed them to me, along with the poster, instructing my father through one of many arguments to encourage me to continue. Dad asked me what I wanted. I hung the poster because it matched my room and draped the shoes in memoriam, but never laced them on my feet again. I enjoyed ballet and faithfully watched The Nutcracker every Christmas. Perfecting Tchaikovsky's piece from the famous ballet transitioned my love of music into a fitting epilogue to my short dance career.
Pushing away the memories and realizing sleep was no longer an option, I crawled out of bed. Sleep deprived and not paying attention to where I walked, I stumbled over a stray tennis shoe, accidently bumping the stack of study materials for my upcoming finals off the corner of my desk. A familiar red envelope slapped the floor.
Three weeks had passed since my interview and no word from Jordan Mason. Not even a standard rejection notice. His mother must have convinced him to seek other "respectable" choices—older, more mature candidates. After all, what
The next day, a bright pink band holding four sparkling diamonds circled my wrist. I officially became a candidate in The Program. Later, my family ties unraveled. Mom and Dad had the worst fight ever. In the middle of the night, Mom placed Daniel and me in a taxi shuttle, and the three of us left for California. Without Dad.
4
KISMET UNLEASHED
A n endless chirping from the oak tree outside my window woke me long before the alarm. I wished for a cat—a hungry one. I blew a long, noisy breath and kicked my covers to the floor in frustration. Staring at the ceiling, I studied how the lavender and gray shadows gave the sponge-painted clouds a realistic appearance.
Mom loved to "express herself" by painting murals on our walls to make our bedrooms our own private world instead of just a room within the house. Daniel's room once resembled a pirate's ship with his bed beneath a huge mast sporting a skull and cross-bones that scared the crap out of me when I opened the door.
Considered "the princess," my room had been painted to resemble a castle, my bedroom door a drawbridge, my bathroom one centered in a turret. Painted stone balusters joined at the window seat to look like a balcony, and out my window, the view of my kingdom. The ceiling was my sky, complete with stars painted in glow-in-the-dark silver paint scattered between the clouds.
When I returned to Ohio after an incident caused an immediate change in custody, I no longer believed in fairytales. Dad and I painted my room a dusty purple, replaced the frilly bedspread with a dark plum and white polka-dot comforter, and tossed the satin accent pillows. Large hot pink, lime green, and black furry pillows took their place. The only thing I couldn't change was my "sky." Even after all these years, the stars still shone when the lights went out. I believed in wishing on the first star of the night and if I didn't get a chance to do so on a real one, I'd pick a fake one to hang my hopes on. The one directly over my head held last night's wish, the same one for the past several weeks. One that apparently wasn't coming true.
A wayward beam from the rising sun sliced across the opposite wall spotlighting the poster of a prima ballerina in a deep bow, my old ballet shoes draped off the corner of the frame. Mom started me in ballet lessons at age six and when I started loving animals more than pirouettes, she pushed my dance teacher to advance me to the pointe troupe in hopes I'd shed my tomboyish tendencies. The shoes killed my feet and the longer Saturday lessons stole the time I usually spent helping Dad at the clinic. When I cut ties from my mother and returned to Maple Heights, I left my shoes behind.
Of course she mailed them to me, along with the poster, instructing my father through one of many arguments to encourage me to continue. Dad asked me what I wanted. I hung the poster because it matched my room and draped the shoes in memoriam, but never laced them on my feet again. I enjoyed ballet and faithfully watched The Nutcracker every Christmas. Perfecting Tchaikovsky's piece from the famous ballet transitioned my love of music into a fitting epilogue to my short dance career.
Pushing away the memories and realizing sleep was no longer an option, I crawled out of bed. Sleep deprived and not paying attention to where I walked, I stumbled over a stray tennis shoe, accidently bumping the stack of study materials for my upcoming finals off the corner of my desk. A familiar red envelope slapped the floor.
Three weeks had passed since my interview and no word from Jordan Mason. Not even a standard rejection notice. His mother must have convinced him to seek other "respectable" choices—older, more mature candidates. After all, what
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