Blank Canvas
Mere Joyce
Evernight Teen Publishing
@50K ~ Romance/Suspense/Contemporary
Three years ago, sixteen-year-old Maddie Deacon
was abducted on her way home from her school’s Art Showcase. Five months ago,
she escaped the madman she calls The Painter. Before being taken, painting was
Maddie’s life. Now, it’s her nightmare.
Maddie
wants to forget her years in captivity. She’d rather spend her time getting
reacquainted with her parents and her sister, not to mention her cello-playing,
beautiful boy next door and childhood best friend Wesley. But paint is
everywhere, and tormenting shadows linger in every portrait she
encounters.
When the
yearly Art Showcase once again approaches, Maddie has the chance to win a
scholarship and start planning a future far away from the horrors of her past.
She knows she has to make a choice–confront her memories of The Painter and
overcome her fear of the canvas, or give up painting forever.
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Excerpt:
“Hello,
Maddie,” Tim says, taking a sip from his Healing Expressions coffee cup. I’m
glad he and Juliet call me Maddie instead of Madison, like Klara does. I’ve
gone by Maddie since my days in preschool, and being called it here makes the
office seem slightly less institutional.
Of
course, it doesn’t make this moment any less awful.
“H-hi,”
I stammer, my voice thin. My feet ache as I force them across the threshold.
Tim prefers it if I close the door behind me, but I need to see my escape
route. Shakily, I cross the room and sit on the bench along the wall of windows
that look down over the parking lot. The cushions are soft, bright orange, and
there are pink and green and blue throw pillows scattered along the seat. I
grab the blue one, and hug it to my chest as I stare at the world on the free
side of the glass panes.
It’s a
strange sensation, watching the world like this. In elementary school, at
recess, I would sit by the fences backing the neighborhood houses. With my head
tilted into the cool fall or warm spring breeze, I would close my eyes and
picture the people in those houses: people not working, people working from
home, people driving the streets or watering their lawns or relaxing in front
of the TV, while I remained stuck at school for another several hours. I have
the same thoughts now as I gaze over the parking lot, far out to the park, the
townhouse complex, and the streets beyond. So many people sleeping, reading,
shopping––all while I’m here, trapped behind a wall of glass.
It helps
to keep my back to the easel. Slowly, the panic of my arrival subsides, and I
take full gulping breaths until I’ve settled into muted unease.
“How are
you feeling today, Maddie?” Tim asks. He remains seated. I get antsy if his
six-foot-three inch body looms over me.
“I’m
fine,” I lie. I’m never fine. Not anymore. But declaring it is like stating the
obvious.
“How’s
school?” I can hear a smile in his voice. I like Tim’s voice, with its deep,
quietly enthusiastic tone. I’m fairly certain I like Tim, too. Or at least I
would, if the circumstances were different. If he didn’t have the task of
prying, of guiding me into frigid, infested waters every time we meet.
“It’s
fine,” I say, shrugging my shoulders.
Tim’s
chair scrapes across the floor as he stands. I keep my eyes fixed on the
parking lot outside. I’ve found Wesley’s tiny van, and I watch it intently.
Tim
approaches, sits on the bench a ways off. “Did you read any papers this week?”
“No.”
The tension I nearly shed on the ride over here is creeping back again. I hate
therapy. I don’t understand how digging into every unpleasant crevice of my
subconscious is supposed to make my life easier.
“How
about the news? Did you watch any?” Tim asks, even though I’m already shaking
my head.
“Y-You
know I didn’t,” I reply, and Tim breathes out, the resulting sound just short
of a sigh.
“How
many times have you had to avoid his picture?” he asks, and I squeeze the
pillow until my fingers are white.
“S-Seventy
… S-Seventy-two,” I choke out.
It’s
become a habit keeping track of the number of times I stop myself from seeing
him. When I go to the drugstore and see the papers lined in a hideous row. When
the news comes on, and reporters rehash what happened.
In the
beginning, it was far harder. There were articles all over, news stories,
constant threats to my sanity. Five months on, most of my count comes from the
personal attacks, the times I remember something, imagine something, and his
face almost manages to push its way in.
“Good.
An improvement on last week,” Tim says, the pleasing smoothness of his voice
giving the achievement a more respectable air than it deserves. Last week there
were seventy-eight occurrences. Having six fewer episodes means nothing, except
Tim is trying to be as positive as possible.
Plus,
there’s the phone call to consider. Last week might have been an improvement,
but I’m certain my methods of diversion will fail to keep me from replaying the
conversation I wasn’t supposed to hear this morning.
Author Bio
Mere Joyce lives in Ontario, Canada. As both a writer and a librarian, she understands the importance of reading, and the impact the right story can have. She is a member of the Society of Children's Book Writers and Illustrators, and holds a Masters of Library and Information Science from the University of Western Ontario.
Mere Joyce lives in Ontario, Canada. As both a writer and a librarian, she understands the importance of reading, and the impact the right story can have. She is a member of the Society of Children's Book Writers and Illustrators, and holds a Masters of Library and Information Science from the University of Western Ontario.
When she’s not writing, reading, or recommending
books, Mere likes to watch movies with her husband, play games with
her son, go for walks with her dog, and drink lots of earl grey tea with orange
chocolate on the side.
Blog: merejoyce.blogspot.com
Twitter: @MereJoyceWrites
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