The excerpt below describes Krista at a scholarship reception dinner. She's nervous, confused and a bit shocked. This is probably why I love her so much; she is flawed and, well, very human.
Ironic, huh? The most human of all my characters in all my novels just happens to be the girl who is superhuman.
Excellent! This is why I'm obsessed with writing...
Love,
Lisa
Mom and Talia head inside the building. I swallow, regain my composure,
and follow them. Talia’s steps are sharp and quick. Mine, however, are not so
confident.
Signs in the lobby point us toward the grand ballroom. Men in suits and
women in elegant black dresses mill around the entrance. They sip their
cocktails, speaking in low voices. It’s more formal than anything I’ve ever
seen.
We enter the ballroom, which is filled with strangers. Mom and Talia linger
near the front, sampling hors d’oeuvres. There are fancy little concoctions
that look delicious. Mini pies and sandwiches rest on top of silver platters.
But food means nothing to me at the moment.
I am more interested in the artwork.
There are so many submissions; paintings line the ballroom, from the last
row all the way to the stage. There are hundreds of chairs in the center. I
swallow, realizing that the competition is much tougher than I’d predicted. I
creep along the edge of the room and scan each masterpiece. They’re all so
unique and well-crafted.
Suddenly, my painting seems very amateurish. I can’t believe I even made
it this far. Compared to these other paintings, mine is ordinary. Unexciting.
While I’m admiring a painting of a lighthouse, someone steps behind me. I
sense a presence before the person utters a word.
Whirling around, I come face-to-face with Ethan Carlson. He’s dressed in a suit,
which is the strangest sight I’ve seen in a while. He seems perfectly
comfortable in ripped jeans and faded t-shirts, but this suit is another story.
He’s swimming in it, for one thing. His narrow hips can barely hold up the
black pants. The sleeves fall a little too low, covering part of his hands.
But the tailoring errors aren’t as interesting as the look of confusion
on his face.
Ethan appears totally baffled. Like he can’t decide whether to embrace
the suit or rip it off his skin.
“Hey Ethan,” I say between chuckles. “What are you doing here? Nice suit,
by the way. It totally goes with your surfer-boy hair.”
“Hey, shut up. I didn’t know how people dress for this kind of thing,” he
admits. “Besides, you could’ve offered a simple ‘thank-you.’ I drove an hour to
be here.”
“Thanks,” I say, controlling my laughter. “Really, it was nice of you. I
can’t believe you remembered.”
“Of course I did,” he says. He shakes his head. “Don’t forget, we’re
friends now.”
The word stands out in my mind. It echoes, like a scream trapped inside a
tunnel. Friends. That’s what we are.
It’s all we’ve ever been.
It’s not so bad, I remind
myself. We weren’t meant to be. Ethan and
I…we never would’ve worked out.
“So which one’s yours?” he asks me, nodding toward the paintings.
I point to the other side of the room, near the stage. Ethan follows me
as I march in front of the first row of seats. A stage has been set up, with a
podium and several large display boards. The microphone sits idle. I know,
however, that the words flowing through that microphone in the next hour have
the potential to change my life.
Or not.
My painting comes into focus as we approach the last few seats. All the
hesitations, all the doubts….they dissolve as I return to the familiar piece.
The woman seems to crawl off the canvas, right into the room. Her eyes are so
vivid. I can practically hear the screeching of tires and the silence that
followed. I can taste the humidity in the air. Her fear is apparent, engraved
in every groove of her skin. That fear is different from the one that’s attacking
me tonight, yet it’s strikingly similar.
“Krista,” Ethan breathes. He turns toward me, his eyes practically
bulging from his head.
“Mmm-hmm?” I murmur.
“Krista, do you realize what this image is?” His voice is harsh, almost
severe. There’s chatter in the background. A glass occasionally clinks, a few
heels click across the floor. But Ethan’s voice shatters those sounds. It beats
against my eardrums the way that Atlanta sunshine pounds against pavement.
I turn toward my painting and shrug. “It just came to me one night. I
don’t even know the woman. That’s sort of irrelevant, though. Isn’t it? I guess
the painting’s supposed to capture a feeling of fear.”
“The woman is not irrelevant,”
he assures me. “In fact, she’s the entire focus of the painting. She’s the
reason you made it, Krista. Don’t you see? Don’t you understand?”
“Understand what?” I ask,
placing a hand on my hip. Ethan is getting so excited, but the truth is my art
piece isn’t special. I’m not going to win this competition. I didn’t paint
anything all that amazing or creative. It’s just a basic nighttime scene. I
should’ve tried harder.
“Krista, this is your mother.”
“Huh?”
“It’s your mom. I’ve seen her face in your cousin’s head; I’ve waded
through memories to find a clear image of your mother. I’d recognize her
anywhere. It’s your mom…the woman whose eyes are now mine,” he says.
My head spins. “How could I possibly paint my mother? I can’t even
remember her, except in dreams.”
“It’s part of your gift,” Ethan concludes. “You can see the future and
the past. This was her, Krista. The night of the accident. Maybe she wants you
to know how upset she was when she realized she was about to lose you. That’s
how deep her love ran, Krista.”
I place a hand on his arm to steady myself.
Mom spoke to me through a painting,
I muse. Is that possible?
It makes no sense.
But then again, Ethan can sort through strangers’ memories. And I can
paint scenes before they happen in real life. So nothing really follows the
laws of physics anymore, it seems. The supernatural has become a daily occurrence
in this small corner of Georgia.
