Drawn

By Chris Ledbetter

Caught between the sweltering fall landscape of Wilmington, NC beaches and southern illusions and expectations, all sixteen year-old Cameron Shade thinks about is art. That, and for Farrah Spangled to view him as more than just a friend. Cameron hopes he can win her heart through art.

After several warm interactions with Farrah, including painting together at the beach, Cameron discovers just how complex Farrah’s life is. Following a tense run-in with Farrah’s father, she forbids Cameron to speak to her again, but Cameron’s convinced there’s more behind the request.

To impress Farrah, Cameron sketches her portrait into a mysterious sketchbook. He nearly jumps from his skin when the sketch moves and communicates with him. Farrah is now in grave danger because the sketch he drew of her sucked her real-life’s soul into the sketchbook. Cameron now has twenty days to extract Farrah. To save her, he must draw himself into the book. If he fails... they both die.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Evernight Teen
• Release date: Jun 25, 2015
• ISBN: 9781772332957

Book preview

Chapter One

Sometimes, I hate the beauty around me. I despise how Mom is no longer here to see the art I create, or a beautiful sunset, or admire how she looks wearing the gorgeous designer gowns she loved so much. But perhaps everything in this world is more vibrant because our time here is so limited. Like if we lived forever, we’d take it for granted.

Thoughts swirl in my head and sand granules crunch beneath my shoes as I tread the weatherworn planks leading to the second-floor art supply shop overlooking Carolina Beach. Palm trees sway in the distance. A guy in dreads dances freestyle below, while a girl claws fiery chords on an acoustic guitar.

Salty air mixes with the sticky, sweet smell of hot Britt’s Donuts from down on the boardwalk. I bite into the donut I just bought, sinking my teeth into a circular, doughy bit of heaven.

Mr. Cassisi stands at the door to his art supply store, Bellissima, his gaze fanning out over autumn sun worshippers on the beach. The slightest of smiles tilts his lips higher on one side. Crows’ feet frame his otherwise stoic grey eyes.

His face brightens to a glow the moment he notices my approach. The new smile actually reaches his eyes. He pulls the door open amidst the terrible clanging of a tiny bell atop the doorframe.

When are you going to get that thing fixed, huh? I joke with him about the bell. It’s hanging on by a thread.

It is in a state of Zen that I must not disturb, Mr. Cassisi replies in his signature, thick Italian accent.

Come again?

He places a wrinkled hand on my shoulder. It is when you are hanging on by a thread that you find the most strength, he says. And inner peace.

I almost follow up with another question, but think better of it. So, I noticed that little glint in your eye, that hint of a smirk on your lips when you stood at the door. I wipe my sticky donut hands on my jeans, and then pat him on the back as I walk past. Taking in the sights down on the beach, are you?

He laughs. I am eighty. I am not dead. A smile lingers on his lips. How is your father doing?

He’s well. The art museum’s kept him busy. I gaze out the window wistfully, and then pull my cell phone out like I’m checking the time. Really, I’m just looking at Mom’s picture on my wallpaper. A sigh shivers through me. Busy is good for him these days.

I concur. He pats my shoulder again. So, what brings you in today? The acrylics class is not for another month, once all the tourists clear out. The weather will turn soon. You should be out frolicking on the beach, no? It is Saturday, after all.

You know, I’m not really much of a beachgoer. I know that sounds crazy. I mean, it’s okay, but… I extend my arm. I don’t exactly need to work on my tan, huh?

No, I suppose not. Mr. Cassisi laughs. But you miss the forest for the trees, Giovane. The beach is about more than skin cancer seekers. Though, I grant you, there is quite enough of that. The slight smile I witnessed at the door returns. It is the drum of the waves against the shore … the minty-cerulean sea foam, misting the air … endless energy of the ocean. Peace and serenity. Reminds me of Sardinia, where I grew up. Why do you think I put my studio here?

And speaking of eighty and studio placement, when are you gonna retire and enjoy the beach?

I will never retire. Art is my life. The beach … it is a perk. He smoothes down his crew cut of wild, silver hair that refuses to fall in the same direction, or lie flat, and then pushes his glasses up his nose. But art…? He nods his head several times. Art makes mortals immortal.

I cast a narrowed, sidelong glance at him, and then amble around the store, snatching an HB graphic pencil from a tub on my way to Mr. Cassisi’s sample sketchpad. The top page is full of everything from stick figures and shading swaths to a floating horse’s head and an armless torso. Customers always want to try out the art supplies. Or maybe they’re showing off.

I flip to a clean sheet. Heaven is a blank canvas.

Mr. Cassisi breaks the silence, pointing to my hand. I see you are still showing off your master pencil tricks.

I hadn’t even realized I’d been twirling the pencil around my thumb. A little trick Mom taught me, before her death. I turn away and close my eyes for a moment.

Mr. Cassisi snaps my attention back to the present. So, my young Caravaggio, what is it on that mind of yours?

I prefer Da Vinci.

Of course you do. He smiles warmly, acknowledging our long-running joke, and sits on a nearby stool. Big shoes, my friend.

I sigh. See, I’m trying to impress this girl at school by drawing a portrait of her, but I want it to be, like, really realistic, you know? So I wanted some advanced pointers beyond the normal instruction you give. I want the good stuff you learned back in Italy.

When is she going to sit for it?

She’s not. I’m going to use a yearbook picture––

Hmmm, that is not stalking at all, is it now? He coughs loudly.

You all right?

Just my annual cold when the weather changes over. I can almost tell time by how reliable it is. He coughs again into a paper towel, looks at the towel, and then crumples it up to throw it away. He returns his attention to me. The lines in his face are more severe. Son, if there is one thing I have learned in these eighty years, it is this: If you like the girl, tell her. That is the only damn thing YOLO is good for, you hear me? The greatest deceit this life delivers is the belief that you have time.

My gaze falls to the floor, and then shifts toward the cawing seagulls at the window. She has a boyfriend.

Mr. Cassisi rubs his scruffy face. If the girl is worth having, then you can’t be surprised if she is taken. He is a boyfriend, not a husband. That is what high school is all about. Ahhh, young love … that means you have to fight a little harder, yes? And not with these. He shakes his wrinkled fist at me. The pencil is mightier than the fist. His subsequent chuckle resonates from deep within his chest as he walks behind the counter. Keep talking. I’m listening.

Anyway, so I thought I’d try to get her attention through art.

Mr. Cassisi reappears from behind the counter, pressing his fingers to his thumb and kissing the tips before gesturing his hand in the air. There is no greater pursuit in life than the pursuit of art, yes? He loops his smock over his head. Now, let us begin.

Wait, why are you wearing a smock? We’re not painting.

It is all about process. I put on the smock. I am all business. He grabs the pencil from my hand. Now, you have the chops already, yes? I have seen your work. It is not the technical things. You want advanced technique? Here is the thing about portraits. With portraits… He taps the tip of his pruned finger against the center of my chest. You must draw from there.

My sternum bone hums and vibrates like he tapped a tuning fork. He shifts his weight from foot to foot as he sketches a portrait of his late wife. From memory. It takes him all of five or six minutes. Maybe less. His process enthralls me. A pencil in his hand may as well be a magic wand. I’m rapt. When he’s finished, her picture appears to hover right above the paper.

Mr. Cassisi, that’s amazing, I say. Those fingers still have the juice.

His voice thins. Sometimes I hear a mysterious voice over the ocean, when the beach is empty. She speaks to me, still. Her whispers carry atop the waves. He stares at the picture for a moment. "Amore mia … musa mia. He reaches a finger toward the face, almost like he’s going to stroke her cheek. A single tear forms at the corner of his eye. You must infuse the portrait with passion. Then and only then will she come alive on the page."

Chapter Two

A few weeks later, I slide into art class right before the bell tolls. I sit down and flip open my sketchpad. Today’s warm-up is retraining on shading properties. A sphere the size of a basketball, but with the color and texture of a Ping-Pong ball, sits on the front table with a desk lamp shining on it. I tighten my grip around the obsidian shaft of my graphite pencil and produce long sweeping arcs, punctuated with short scrawls on my sketch paper.

Our task is to draw four similar spheres and shade each one using a different technique: tonal, scumble, smudge, and crosshatch. Shading is the key to chiaroscuro, the interplay of light and dark in art. It’s how the artist turns flat, two-dimensional objects into three-dimensional beings.

With my hand whirring on the mundane warm-up activity, I shoot a glance toward Jameson Scott across the room. My mind drifts briefly to the online video game based on the U.S. Navy SEALs we’d played the previous night. We play DEVGRU: War On Terror, on a team with two guys who live in other cities––Charlottesville, VA and Charleston, SC. In gearing up for a tournament, we had a good run last night. Still amazes me that we can play on a team together and reside in three different places.

Jameson flashes me a DEVGRU-based hand signal. He motions his hands overhead in two sharp flicks forward, which basically tells me the equivalent of get your ass back to work. His large, seventies-style Afro bobs back and forth when he returns his attention to his work.

After the warm-up activity that I could’ve done in my sleep, Mr. Jaques stands at the front of the class in his signature slumped posture. When beginning a work from scratch, as artists, we project images in our minds of what we wish to sketch, right? He grabs a handful of his long, graying hippie hair, looking like he just stepped out of Woodstock. In our minds, we view it clear as day. So why is it harder to draw an image from our minds than one on a physical plane before our eyes?

No one answers. He walks between our drawing tables and continues, The biggest hindrance is scale. We can see a picture in front of us and gauge it against its canvas, right? How far it is from the top, and sides, etc. The image in our minds has no direct, translatable scale. It changes and shifts… fog rolls in and out… lines blur, sharpen, and then haze again. It’s amorphous.

God, but that man can ramble. I rest my chin in my hand and glance over at Jameson. He takes two fingers and points at his eyes and then to the teacher. He’s taking this DEVGRU team leader role a bit too far.

The Jaques monologue, or as we say, his sermon, continues. The best of us can manage that internal image so that sketching from our minds is like copying from a physical picture. That’s why we work on shading, light against dark, as a means to convey substance and structure… in short, reality.

I spin my pencil around my thumb, waiting for him to get to the end of this massive address. I should be used to it.

All right, my little Van Gogh’s and Goghette’s, I have a challenge for you, he says in his best British accent. Lord knows why he does this. He’s not British. For the next twenty minutes of class, you are to recreate a picture that I will flash on the overhead for exactly five minutes. After that, you must recreate from memory. Whoever does the best shall receive a homework pass. Pencils at the ready.

The wheels squeak as he rolls the overhead projector into place, and then turns out the light. Each student turns on his or her desk lamp. I think the strength in each bulb is something like three watts. Maybe two and a half. Mr. Jaques flips the switch and then a gorgeous picture of Taylor Swift pops up. She stands with her hands on her hips, sheathed in a black licorice-colored bandage dress. Two-thirds of her body is turned away and her hair is a waterfall of citron and goldenrod curls.

Annnd, go! Mr. Jaques says.

I stare at the picture to take in as many details as possible. My attention shifts downward to sketch out a few establishing lines. I look over at Jameson. He’s staring at the screen and blinking. I know exactly what he’s doing and curse myself for not doing it. Not yet, anyway. Each time he blinks, it’s like he’s freeze-framing a snapshot into his mind so that when the projector’s off, Taylor will be emblazoned upon his brain.

I blow out a series of curt breaths. Okay, I can do this, I repeat until I believe it. I hate timed competitions like this. Despite art being nearly all I’ve ever known, my pencil still shakes whenever these contests come around. The sound of pencils scratching across paper is deafening. My own pencil has yet to join the chorus.

After a few more blinks, I launch in with the sleek lines of her arms and shoulders. And then move to her lithe frame and the second-skin dress she’s wearing. It looks vintage, like twenties Hollywood glamour. Must be some red carpet event. Her long slender fingers rest on her hips. One finger’s sporting a ring with a black stone, probably onyx. Jaques will pay attention to details like that. And so will I.

I frame out her face, but now time is running short. The bow of her scarlet lips … The slope of her nose. Her come-hither stare. Her eyes are beguiling. She says they’re gray in interviews, but they look blue to me. I glance at the clock. Thirty seconds to go. I note where the light source is coming from and then pay final attention to the hair, the comings and goings of curls and finger waves. Highlights and lowlights.

Time. Jaques calls out as he flips the projector off. And then scrambles to turn on the lights. You have fifteen minutes to finish up.

I focus on all the details my mind has retained. I bear down in places, use a lighter hand in others, and mix my shading techniques to fill out the picture. Not surprisingly, her hair takes the longest to get right. Her curls epitomize chiaroscuro. The light glints off of them like they’re spun gold.

All right, pencils down, Jaques utters when time has expired. Pencils hitting the drafting tables sound like a snare drum line beating an irregular cadence. Jaques weaves through the drafting tables, searching, scanning, and inspecting. He picks up five papers, including Jameson’s and mine, and returns to his desk.

My heart thumps. I reach for my pencil, and then yank my hand back. I fully expect Jameson to win. He always wins these timed events. Well, almost always. But, I never do. I need a more relaxed set of circumstances, more time. Art shouldn’t be timed.

I divert my gaze to the classroom clock, whose orange second-hand jerks forward with every second. It is staccato and deliberate, each passing moment punctuated with an exclamation point.

Jaques wraps his nubby fingers around his coffee mug and draws it to his mouth. After a long swig, he calls out. Jameson and Cameron … front and center.

I pop my head up like Punxsutawney Phil and peer toward Jameson. He punches his fist into his hand and nods to the teacher’s desk.

I really like what you’ve both done here, Jaques begins. Exquisite work, really. Especially for the time and constraints given.

Jameson elbows me and waggles his eyebrows.

Jaques takes a deep breath. Here’s my dilemma. While both are good, both can’t win. He looks at me. "Jameson, your picture is … life-like. I mean she really jumps off the page. Great job. He turns to me. Yours is splendid, Cameron. Truly. Not quite as life-like, but the attention to detail is uncanny. He points to several spots on my paper, directing Jameson’s attention. Look at this––wait, let’s show the whole class and let them decide."

Great. I sulk.

He flashes our pictures on the projector. Outstanding, huh?

The entire class looks like bobble-head dolls as they agree.

Who wins? Jaques asks the class. Raise your hands for Jameson. He pauses to count hands. Raise ‘em high for Cameron. After surveying the votes, he says, And Jameson wins.

Likely.

And then, five minutes before class ends as we take our seats again, she walks in. No, not Taylor Swift. Better. Farrah. Farrah Spangled. Her flame-red hair is pulled back into a barely-restrained, tousled mess of a ponytail, with several strands falling at her temples. She pushes her glasses up her nose as her blue-eyed gaze sweeps the room for Mr. Jaques so she can deliver an office request notice. My breaths shorten as I hope against hope that my name is on that form.

I run through all the reasons my name could be there. Dad is here to pick me up from school early. The nurse knows I’m sick before I even realize it. Someone once said that love is a sickness. Or was it madness?

She hands the note to Mr. Jaques and wheels around back toward the door in as fluid a movement as any human can manage. When the door closes behind her, I release the breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. Mr. Jaques calls a name that that isn’t remotely close to mine.

I sigh. Can’t the universe give me anything I want? At least I can look forward to Journalism class, where she and I get to work on the newspaper together. Though, working together with her is a very loose interpretation of what actually happens.

I feel Jameson’s eyes burning a hole in the side of my neck. I slowly turn toward him. He’s shaking his head. I already know what he would say.

Chapter Three

Jameson catches my arm as we leave class. Talk to her… or don’t talk. There is no drooling.

Wait… What? I fit my books under my arm. I may do a lot of things. Drooling is not one of them.

Wanna bet?

I wipe my mouth. I was totally not drooling.

Maybe not, but just like dogs can smell fear… girls can smell desperate.

Whatev.

The time is now, soldier. I’m giving you ‘til homecoming to score a date.

She’s got a boyfriend. You gotta give me more time than that. Cassisi’s words sweep through my ears. That means you have to fight a little harder, yes? And not with your fists. The pencil is mightier than the fist.

Pffft, there are other fish in the sea. You know that, right?

Were there for Captain Ahab?

He flashes an incredulous frown and sticks a pick in the top of his hair like Questlove from The Roots. Uhh, yeah the greatest stalker of all time? Pick a new hero, wouldya? And anyway, that story was about revenge, not love. He laughs.

Fine. Bad example.

Ya think? He snorts. His girlfriend, Morgan, saunters up behind him in a tight-fitting Seaview Vikings girls’ lacrosse t-shirt. She waves at me and then slips an arm through Jameson’s. I gotta run, Jameson says. We pound fists, and with our hands, we flash the DEVGRU move out hand signal before going our separate ways.

If I could take Journalism for four periods a day, I would. As long as Farrah Spangled were in each class. I scoff at Jameson’s desperate comment. Psssht. Drooling. That’s a completely false interpretation. See, desperate leads to stalker. And I’m nobody’s stalker. Admirer is a far better term. Even if in secret and from afar.

The only class I’m ever extra early for is Journalism. I take that back––sometimes I’m early for Advanced Art, too. But generally, as in every single day, I’m in my Journalism assigned seat with full minutes to spare. This is because Farrah’s entrance into class is red carpet-worthy. I almost want to sit back with a bag of kettle corn and a strawberry Yoo-Hoo. Another whole different side of me wants to grab a camera and blind her with flash snaps. But yeah, that does cross the line into stalker-ville.

As the orange second hand sweeps past

Reviews for Drawn

[cherylk_44 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Cameron is an artist. He has a crush on Farrah. He would like Farrah to be his next portrait subject matter. Farrah would be his Rose to his Jack Dawson from Titanic. Cameron's close friend and artist dies. Yet, he sends Cameron a sketchbook with just one warning to draw things and not people. Cameron does not heed this warning. He draws Farrah's portrait in the book. The most extraordinary thing happens next, her portrait comes alive. She tells Cameron that she resides in another realm called Terra Sempre. Terra Sempre is a form of Hell. If Cameron can not find a way to save Farrah in time than her soul will be lost forever. At first I was not that excited about this book. Although I did think it had promise. I felt that Cameron was too much of a nice guy and reserved within himself. Farrah did not intrigue me and she made me wonder what Cameron saw in her. Yet, as the story went on and I got to about chapter 15/16, this is when the story really picked up for me and I was than in for the long ride. The way that Cameron and Farrah navigated through Terra Sempre was vivid and not a place that I would want to be stuck in. I like the way the author turned this story into more than just about drawing. Also, there was lots of action in the way that Cameron fought to save Farrah.

[e.a.walsh · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

(I received this book free from the Author in exchange for my honest review)

This was a fun read that had me guessing until the very end, but in saying that I have mixed feelings about this read. This book is what I like to call, driving through rush hour. Why? Because there's a lot of fast and slow moments, stop and go.

The beginning sets the stage for our lead, Cameron. For openings, it’s now one of my favourites. It was original and calming, and I felt like I was there with Cameron, watching the waves, and smelling the salt air. The pace is good into those first few chapters. We lear more about Cameron and what his life is like. We meet his crush, Farrah, who is his eyes, can do wrong. She’s already taken, making this “love” a one sided one. I don’t know if I like her or not, she wasn’t really present and all you really get about her is what Cameron thinks and the one, not-so-date, that was sort-of-a-date. It wasn’t enough for me to care about her.

After that point the story takes a bit of a dive, there’s about six pages where he is playing a war type game. I don’t care that he was playing the game, but the six pages were basically a transcript of the game itself. It all honesty it was filler and it didn’t need to be there. One page, maybe two, but not six, I skipped over it because it didn’t do anything for the me or plot.

There was a lot of that weird spacing. Especially after the dire situation that left Farrah fighting of her life. The sense of panic, and desperation wasn’t really there at the start, but did pick up towards the end. In truth I felt that it was spaced to far apart or better yet, it was stretched out to make the book longer. The last 30% of the book was fast, there was lots of action, suspense and had my heart pound. It was the true highlight of the book.

I did like Cameron, he does a lot of growing throughout this story. He’s talented and strong in his own right. He owns up to his mistake and takes ownership in that fact. When he was in too deep he reached out for help, knowing the consequences, and knowing that he might get rejected, he knew that in order to fix his mistake he needed help, even if it would cause him his life.

Though I gotta say, my favourite character was Vittoria. She was mysterious, with a hint of evil. You don’t really know who’s side she’s on until the end. She’s a survivor, strong and cunning. She knows how to play her cards and knows what to say to get what she wants. In truth I felt she was the main female lead. That and I felt like she had more of a connection with Cameron then Farrah.I hate to say it, but I was rooting for her.

The ending was amazing, but in my opinion, the ending could have ended with a twist, something unexpected. Cameron has a choice at the end, and I believe he should have taken down the road less traveled. For a spelt second I though he was going to do it, I was biting my nails hoping he would, but that was not the case. In saying all that, the ending was still outstanding and pulled at the heart strings. I had a wicked smile on my face, and it my or may not have looked goofy.

I highly recommend this book. Despite the awkward spacing and my crushed dream for the ending, this story is original and flat out, good. The writing is solid, strong, and the description was exceptional. I felt like I was in that world, both worlds, seeing the bright colours and feeling the sounds. I would to thank Chris Ledbetter for giving me the opportunity to read this one of a kind.