Stained Glass Summer Read online

  title page

  Stained Glass Summer

  A Middle-Grade Novel

  Mindy Hardwick

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  An imprint of

  Musa Publishing

  Copyright Information

  Stained Glass Summer, Copyright © Mindy Hardwick, 2011

  All Rights Reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, 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 prior written permission of the publisher.

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  This e-Book is a work of fiction. While references may be made to actual places or events, the names, characters, incidents, and locations within are from the author’s imagination and are not a resemblance to actual living or dead persons, businesses, or events. Any similarity is coincidental.

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  Musa Publishing

  633 Edgewood Ave

  Lancaster, OH 43130

  www.musapublishing.com

  ...

  Published by Musa Publishing, December, 2011

  ...

  This e-Book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of International Copyright Law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines and/or imprisonment. No part of this ebook can be reproduced or sold by any person or business without the express permission of the publisher.

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  ISBN: 978-1-61937-047-0

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  Editor: Jen Loring

  Cover Design: Lisa Dovichi

  Interior Book Design: Coreen Montagna

  Dedication

  This story is dedicated to those who mentor the artist.

  Prologue

  Jasmine slipped off her silver ring. She slowly rubbed her chocolate spice-painted fingernails over the amethyst. Dad’s gift. A ring she had promised to take care of—no matter what. Jasmine dangled the ring over Puget Sound. She imagined tossing the ring. It would fly high in the air and send arcs of silver light across the faces of the people waiting in the ferry line. The ring would splash into black Puget Sound and drop under dark waters. But like her pain, the ring would not stay submerged. And just when Jasmine thought the ring was gone, the white foamy wake would hurl the ring back onto the rocky beach.

  On the beach a five-year-old girl, dressed in an orange and blue flower bathing suit, would pick up the ring. “A treasure!” The girl would bury the ring inside a gray and black beach rock castle. She would never know the power that lay inside.

  Chapter One

  “Art Power,” Dad says.

  I move my finger over the amethyst oval stone set inside a silver ring that looks very expensive. I’ve gotten used to Dad’s outrageous, impractical art presents, like the tall, pink glass vase he gave me last Christmas. It’s part of being an artist’s daughter, and I love it.

  “Fabulous!” I’ve been waiting to use that word on something after I heard an art judge at one of Dad’s shows exclaim, “Fabulous!” when she handed him the first place ribbon. I wave my hand over Dad’s photography books on the coffee table and admire the carved leaves and swirls that don’t completely cover my tanned ring finger.

  “It’s too expensive for a twelve-year-old,” Mom says as she enters the room. She carries a white cake with twelve candles. Her dark hair bounces with every step. It’s the same color as mine, only hers is curly and mine is straight. My eyes meet Mom’s, and I look away. I know she’s right. Dad’s gifts are too expensive. But I love Dad’s fabulous art gifts, and I’m not going to give them up.

  “Wish for a win in that contest,” Dad says as Mom sets the cake on the coffee table. His eyes sparkle as he leans forward. I notice the small bit of gray in his hair that frames his narrow face.

  I know not to say anything. Dad doesn’t believe in getting old. I think about the school art contest. The winner gets to take summer classes at the Chicago Art Institute, where Dad teaches. I’m already imagining what will happen when I win. I’ll spend the whole summer with Dad. We’ll ride together to the Institute, and I’ll take my classes while he teaches his. Afterward, we’ll ride home together and talk about our day. But even more importantly, I must win to prove that I’m an award-winning artist like Dad.

  My stomach cramps as I think about trying to prove that I am an award-winning artist. I take a deep breath, and lean over to blow the candles. All of the candles blow out, but one remains. Its flickering flame is like a taunting tease.

  “Oh no,” I moan. “It’s bad luck!”

  Dad exhales, and in one whoosh he blows the last candle out. He turns to me, and his eyes are cold and unreadable. “I trust you to take good care of the ring. The Andes artist says it has power.”

  “Seeing the future?” I run my hand over the purple stone. The stone warms under my touch, as if powers are seeping from the ring’s stone into my hand and back again. I’d love to see the future. I rub my finger over the smooth stone and wait for Dad to tell me about the ring. I love Dad’s travel stories. He entertains Mom and me with world adventures in different languages, new customs, and exotic foods.

  “Power,” Dad says. “Power for your art.”

  “Mmm…” I say, hoping I sound very serious. I know about art power. There can be nothing on the canvas, yet there are a million things waiting to be born. Art transfers me out of one time and into another. I love to look at the clock and, when I check again, five hours have passed. Some days the ideas come rushing forward while other days nothing comes at all. But I always like the surprise of never knowing when the ideas might pop up.

  Mom clears her throat, and I look up to see her holding a piece of cake on a sunflower paper plate and a Happy Birthday napkin. As I take the plate, our fingers touch, and I grin. Mom stopped at the bakery down the street to pick out the most expensive cake in the store. Mom likes expensive presents just as much as Dad does.

  I lift my fork to take a bite and watch as Mom tries to hand Dad a piece of cake. He frowns and shakes his head at her. For a minute, a hurt look darkens Mom’s face. It’s the same one I feel when he has something else to do and I’m annoying him. Something that happens a lot and I try not to think about.

  Dad doesn’t notice Mom’s look. He never does. In Dad’s world, there is one person—Dad. Mom and I say that is what makes him such a good photographer. But sometimes I wish that he weren’t such a good photographer, and a better dad instead.

  Dad stretches. His six-foot frame reaches toward the high ceilings, and I swear that if he stands on tiptoes, he can reach the ceiling beams with his long, tapered fingers. “I’m headed upstairs.”

  “Can I come with you?” I ask softly, and stare at the floor. I can’t look at Dad. There’s too much hope inside me. Hope that too often goes unfulfilled.

  “Just for a little bit. I want you to finish up that collage for the contest. I’ll make sure everything looks perfect.”

  “Everything looks great!” I pop off the couch and leave my untouched piece of cake on the coffee table next to Dad’s photography books.

  “Jasmine.” Mom touches my arm briefly, and I want to shake her away. I know what she’s trying to tell me. Don’t get too excited. You know how he is. This moment isn’t really about you; it never is. It’s about Dad. But I don’t want to hear her, not now. Not on my birthday. Instead, I want to believe that this moment is about me. I want to believe that this time will be different.

  “The contest,” I say, while hoping Mom understands my unspoken words. It’s okay this time. “Dad has to help me finish my collage.”

  Mom shakes her head and turns away from me. She reaches to the coffee table beside her. “I have somet
hing for you too.” Mom turns around, holding a thick catalogue between her fingers. “I wanted to surprise you.” She pauses and then says, “I bought you special summer school lessons.”

  “Art classes?” Mom bought me art classes! I am so excited I can barely breathe. My birthday is turning out to be fabulous.

  “Not exactly.” Mom shakes her head, and her dark brown hair moves from side to side across her shoulders. “These classes are at the private high school. It’s the school where I attended.” There is a bit of hesitancy in her voice, as if she’s worried I won’t remember all the times she has told me about her high school. “I thought you’d like to get a head start for when you’re ready for high school. If you start now in summer classes with a foreign language, then in a few years you’ll be very prepared for the high school classes.”

  “Oh,” I say, trying not to hurt Mom, but it doesn’t take much to hear the deflation in my voice, as if I am a balloon that has just lost all its air. I twist my fingers together. I do appreciate her gift. But I am an artist. I need summer art classes with Dad, not classes at Fishers.

  “Fishers is a good school,” Mom says quietly.

  “Please, Mom,” I beg. The words tumble out before I can stop them. It’s a conversation Mom and I have had a zillion times. No one ever wins.

  Mom slowly sets down the catalogue. She lifts her plate and takes a bite of her cake. Her red painted lips close over her fork as the cake slides into her mouth. I’ve disappointed her, and I feel bad. Most of the time, Mom and I are a team. We have to be. It takes two of us to live with Dad, and even then, I’m not sure we ever really win.

  I try to explain to Mom. “You’ll see. I’m going to win the contest. It will all be okay.” I reach out and give Mom a small pat, as if she is the child and I’m the adult. “I promise. It will all work out.”

  Mom smiles sadly at me. “Okay, Jasmine,” she says.

  I twirl around and head toward the loft spiral stairs. I know that, this time, things will work out.

  As I climb the spiral staircase into the studio loft, I hear Dad walking above me. I can’t help but hum. I love nighttime in Dad’s studio. It’s taken me a long time to earn Dad’s trust. On my first visit to the studio, I tried to color on one of Dad’s paintings. I thought the white box outline in the middle of the white canvas needed some color. Dad caught me as I was busy scribbling away. He grabbed my hand, and the crayon dropped to the floor. He didn’t say anything for what seemed like forever. And then, with his voice of steel, said, “If you’re going to do art, I will teach you.”

  Now, I watch as Dad pours hot water from a small silver pot that rests on a warming plate in the far right corner of the loft. “Hot chocolate?”

  “Yes.” I head for the rack of mugs perched on a shelf below a window overlooking Lake Michigan. There are mugs with scenes of Australian beaches and oceans, and other mugs with African lions, giraffes, and elephants. I pick up one of these mugs and hope the power of the animal will jump off the cup and I’ll roar.

  I pour hot water from the pot and eye the row of Dad’s pictures hanging on the white wall. A small light highlights each. I know each photo by heart. Each framed picture has a blue or silver award tacked to the frame: Best New Photographer for the State of Illinois, First Place in the Mid-West Photography Winter Exhibit, First Place in the Chicago Photography and Design Show. The rows stretch twelve across. This spring, Dad has started hanging a second row under the first.

  “Yours will be right next to mine,” Dad says when he sees me looking at the pictures. He points to a blank space. There is a hook already attached to the wall.

  I bite the inside of my cheek and taste a small amount of blood. I have to win the contest. If I want to be an artist like Dad, I have to start my own wall of awards. And, even more importantly, I have to prove that he has the best daughter in the world, and the only way to do that is by winning art contests.

  I turn around and look at my contest entry, which is laid out on a long easel. Dad has been helping me and adding touches while I haven’t been in the studio, but something doesn’t seem right. He’s added a bit of texture for a three-dimensional appearance. But I’m not quite sure that the colors blend in the far right hand corner. I want to say something to Dad, but I know what he’ll say. “In order to compete, you must stand out. Yours must be different than everyone else’s.”

  I rub my fingers over my new ring’s purple stone and hear a whisper. I’m not sure if it’s my imagination, but I think I hear the stone say, “You will win the contest.” Dad said it had magic powers.

  “Are you going to get started?” Dad asks. He perches on a metal stool with a brown cushion in front of his computer. He waves his hand toward the canvas.

  “Just thinking.” I smile at Dad. “Preparing.” Dad always says that half of art is preparing—thinking about what you want to accomplish before you sit down and start to draw.

  “Well, don’t prepare all night.” Dad checks his watch. “I need to sleep.”

  I’m suddenly nervous again. I know the rules. In the art studio, we follow Dad’s rules.

  I dip a large paintbrush into green paint and wipe the edges against a water jar. For a minute, doubts crowd my mind as I study my painting. Dad chose an extra-large canvas from the art shop. I’m not sure how I’ll get the canvas to school without a ride, and getting a dependable ride from Dad is not always easy.

  “I just got busy,” he’ll say as I open the car door, after forty minutes of waiting outside the Art Palace Community Hall on Saturday mornings. It’s always embarrassing, waiting for Dad. The last Art Palace teacher to leave always asks if I’m sure that I didn’t need a ride home. And they always give me that look. It’s the one that is half-pity and half-worry, while I try to make up excuses for where Dad is and why he forgets his daughter.

  I once tried to be mad at Dad about his lateness, but as soon as I got in the car, he turned to me and said, “Don’t give me attitude or I won’t pick you up at all.” The last thing I want is for Dad not to pick me up at all.

  I love my time with Dad—even if he is a little late.

  I study my painting and say softly, “Dad?”

  “Mmm…”

  “You’re taking me to the school contest tomorrow, right?”

  Dad stops and raises his eyebrows.

  I know this look and it frightens me.

  “Why are you asking?” Dad snaps. “I told you I’d take you. Don’t ask again.”

  “Right,” I say as my stomach churns. I don’t know why I asked. I knew Dad would take me. Sometimes I just do stupid things. This time, I have broken Art Studio Rule Number 2: No disturbing the artist at work.

  I shift on my stool and turn my attention back to the painting. There is something about the colors that doesn’t sit right with me. In my mind, I picture them alive and vibrant. But on the page they seem dull and flat. I stare out the window and into the tall dark trees surrounding the studio. If only I could capture the green, or even the amber, orange and yellow when the oak tree leaves turn in the fall.

  And then, as if a genie has hopped off the tree and said, “Your wish is my command,” light green, dark green and leafy textures swirl around me. It is as if I have left my body and I am flying in the trees. It reminds me of when Dad takes me to the amusement park and I ride the roller coasters. When my heart beats a million miles an hour, as the small carts careen close to the edges and around loops but always, held by a small chain, holding me above the hard ground.

  In my art trance, I am flying up and down the tree limbs. I reach toward the sky and then, sensing that I can’t crash into the ground, dive back toward the roots of the tree. Everything buzzes, hums, and vibrates around me in a symphony of sound as I dance on one limb and then the other. I am flying in tune to my own harmonized orchestra.

  The studio casts light into the tree and I fly over to the window. Dad shifts and moves images on his computer. My mind whirls. Am I really in the tree? How has it happened? I feel
so free. It’s as if possibilities are all around me and nothing can stop me. Every artist must know this feeling! The green fades, and my hands grasp my paintbrush. The paint smell of the studio engulfs me.

  “Dad!”

  “Yes?” Dad doesn’t take his eyes off the computer screen.

  I stop. What will Dad think when I tell him about this world? But I can’t keep it in. I have to tell him.

  “Yes?” Dad repeats and peers at me over his thin-wire rimmed glasses.

  “I danced in the tree limbs. Everything was so green! Can you do that?” I hop off my stool.

  “Maybe it’s the muse,” Dad says. “Or maybe it’s part of that magic ring. You know I always choose great gifts for you.”

  “Yes,” I say. “You always choose great gifts.” I twirl my ring as I think about where I have just been. The world is my own private art world. I can go there anytime I need ideas or inspiration. It’s a bit like magic, and now I must give the world a name. When I was younger, I lined up all the stuffed animals on my bed and gave them each a name. Not just a first name, but a last name too. I chose names that sounded exotic to me, names like Hamish and Rhianna.

  The name for my magical art world has to be something special. Something unique. Something like…Lucianna. The name pops into my head and I remember Lucy Ann, my best friend in elementary school, who arrived in second grade with a new pink pencil case, sharpened colored pencils and fresh watercolor paints. She was my best friend until she moved at the end of fourth grade, and I haven’t had another friend like her.

  “Jasmine,” Dad says, his voice suddenly sharp. “Get back to work. I’ve got some other things to do.”

  I nod as the familiar feeling of not wanting to bother Dad washes over me. I don’t want to annoy Dad. I’m not always important to him, but I want to be.

  I drop a splotch of green onto my canvas. The paint spreads out, leaving thin spider legs behind like cracks in a sheet of glass. I can’t help but think that I am like a sheet of glass, cracking under the pressure of Dad.