For many children, I think it happens early on. Even if at that point they’re completely unaware of it, there’s that moment where everything changes: gray turns to black and white, open windows of opportunity slam shut and slogans such as, “You can be anyone you want to be, so long as you believe,” are recycled for the next generation. For me, that moment happened at age five, sitting crisscross applesauce on the carpet of Mrs. Pickleberry’s kindergarten class.

© Cara Rosalie Olsen

Filed under: Main Characters ]]> http://awakeningfosterkelly.com/2012/06/04/foster-kelly/feed/ 0 Foster Kelly thislittlelight516 emmy_rossum_photoshoot-4977 http://awakeningfosterkelly.com/2012/06/04/dominic-kassells/ http://awakeningfosterkelly.com/2012/06/04/dominic-kassells/#comments Mon, 04 Jun 2012 18:49:42 +0000 Cara Olsen http://awakeningfosterkelly.wordpress.com/?p=37 Read More →]]>

My heart was instantly confused; in the same second it broke into a sprint, smashing against my ribs with blunt and forceful knocking, sounding alarms of all kinds deep within my eardrums, and defaulted to a nearly painful canter—sluggish and irregular. The eyes that stared back at mine were indisputably the bluest eyes I had ever seen, possessing so many varying shades of turquoise that, simply calling them blue was both obtuse and inaccurate. They were barrier reef and pale, cloudless sky, outfitted by a cluster of lashes thicker and darker than any hedge could afford. They were stunning.

© Cara Rosalie Olsen

The acerbic expression melted away the second she smiled up at me. Like her brother, it was a beautiful smile, white and straight, but somehow more polished and affecting. One side of her mouth lifted further than the other, exposing more teeth on that side. With only a couple feet between us, I noticed too, a sheer layer of freckles smattered over her nose and cheeks, as if someone had painstakingly taking the time to deposit each one in just the right place. And the lively brown eyes were no ordinary brown, but flecked with gold and ringed with a tawny sunburst around the large black pupil.

“I’m Emily.” She held out her hand, nails painted white and each finger embellished with a large silver ring in either turquoise, obsidian, or rose quartz. I shook it lightly, hoping she didn’t notice how grossly sweaty my palms were. “And this”—she thumbed down—“is my lowly manservant, Jacob Donahue.”

Her brother responded by reaching over and yanking on her second toe, pulling hard until the knuckle cracked. As he rose, I saw that he was even more handsome up close. Both Donahues had inherited the same high forehead and slender nose; but unlike his sister, Jake’s eyes were a deep midnight blue, shrouded with long white lashes.

© Cara Rosalie Olsen

He gazed around the garage. “Yeah, where should I throw this away?” he asked, aimlessly searching.

Standing near enough that I could make out the translucent blond hairs on his muscled chest, I began babbling. “Um—I can—you don’t have to—well . . .” I swallowed, fixing my eyes on the side door so there was absolutely no confusion as to where I was looking. I raised my arm and pointed. “If you go through that door,” I instructed, “there should be a trashcan to your right. Thank you for, um—for doing that.”

He shrugged a shoulder. “Yeah, sure. No worries.” He bared his resplendent teeth, an echo of his sister’s smile in many ways, and different in others. For some reason, the effect was less alluring, more boyish. When he smiled, Jake gave the impression that an eight year old was very much still present inside a rapidly developing body. His was the kind of smile that touched all angles of the face, softening the jaw, lighting the eyes with mirth, and highly contagious; so much in fact, that my own unwitting mouth mimicked a wonky grin in response. Having known Jake for less than five minutes, I made presumptuous assumption that Jake was a person wholly at ease with himself, and thusly with the ability to impart this quietude on those around him. Only later, after getting to know him better, would I know that I’d been correct about him.

© Cara Rosalie Olsen

The twelve of us filtered to the back of the room. At the back line, I waited until everyone had acquisitioned the furry rugs and beanbags, and then found a seat on the floor up against the wall. Everyone seemed to know each other already, so there wasn’t an introduction of any kind. All at once my classmates began speaking asunder.

“Who reads music?”

“What about having a theme?” someone suggested. “Like ‘A Moment In Time’?”

“Isn’t that a Whitney Houston song, like from the eighties?”

“No. That’s ‘One Moment In Time’.”

“Kelly Clarkson sang ‘A Moment Like This’.”

“Oh . . . I really like that one.”

“Yeah, but Mr. Balfy says it needs to be an original song.”

Long legs crisscrossed in a comfortable recliner, Vanya raised her voice. “I have a great idea for my song.”

A few disconcerted looks were exchanged around the circle. “Your song?” someone repeated.

She smiled. “Oh, of course I mean, our song,” she said, waving her hand with a laugh. “And you’ll like where I’m going with it—don’t worry. There’s really something for everyone.”

“Uh, maybe we should take a vote,” a boy wearing a blue hat commented.

Vanya cleared her throat discreetly and the two girls sitting beside her spoke up at the same time.

“No, I like Vanya’s idea,” they said in unison.

He chuckled. “Do you even know what it is?”

Both girls looked to Vanya for an answer. She blinked, hard.

“Right,” said the boy, “Well, I still think we should take a vote.”

And so a vote was cast, and for the most part, the majority of the vocalists rallied behind Vanya’s vision. Satisfied with the results, Vanya set off in a whirlwind, retrieving notes from her purse, which conveniently were already with her. For the next twenty minutes, she assigned parts to each of the vocalists.

Someone said, “You have almost twice as many solo lines as everyone else, Vanya.”

“That’s because I wrote it,” she retorted evenly, and launched back into delegating.

I didn’t mind being left out of the solos. At one point, however, I noticed what I thought might be an incorrect lyric, a mistake homonym. I waited a moment, glancing around to see if anyone else saw the same. When it appeared that we were about to move on, I spoke up.

“Sorry to interrupt, Vanya,” I said, leaning toward the sheets spread out in the circle, and pointed to the word. “Did you mean to use rain here? Or, is it supposed to be reign?” I knew which word she meant—the theme of the song was kings and queens—but I didn’t want to offend her by presuming.

Unfortunately, she was offended, among other things.

I lifted my head and gazed around the circle of faces. Blood swarmed my cheeks as a heavy silence captivated the faces staring from me to Vanya.

No more than two feet away, I watched her eyes go still, pale skin slightly flushed in the ears and throat.

I recoiled, quickly pulling my wayward finger away from Vanya’s song. “It was only a suggestion,” I said softly. “We can keep it the way it is, if you like.”

Someone double-checked the chart, saying, “Oh, she’s right Vanya—I think you meant reign.”

Vanya turned to the girl. “Did I?” she asked tonelessly.

My blood ran cold as Vanya’s head suddenly turned, her eyes burning into mine. She smiled at me, her oval face falling curiously to the side. She was not embarrassed, I realized, but livid. Under her inspection, I became very aware of myself. I couldn’t quite explain the sensation—as people rarely looked at me this intensely—but the scrutiny was how I imagined Hester Prynne must have felt at being paraded in front of a clan of malicious villagers, bearing the opprobrious A upon her chest.

“Foster?” Vanya leaned forward, cupping one cheek in her palm. “Is that your name? Foster?”

I nodded, the muscles in my stomach constricting.

She made a soft noise, one that somehow captured and conveyed all the things she might have wanted to say with words. Her eyes roamed slowly down my face, to my throat, pausing at my midsection, settling at my shoes, then flicked back up in one quick motion, one last lingering glower at my hair.

I flinched.

She sighed, stretched, and sat back in the chair, crossing her arm over her chest. Then she ran a hand over the side of her head, smoothing down the sleek ponytail; though not a single hair was out of place

“So, Foster,” she said with curiosity, “you’re from the East Coast, right? Connecticut, was it?” I was more than a little surprised that she had been paying attention when Mr. Balfy introduced me. “Hm. Well, maybe back home on the farm, the goats and cows and the chickens—your friends, maybe they appreciated your input on what kind of feed to give them.” She paused, affording me another glimpse of her small white teeth, single file, one after the other. “But you’re not on the farm anymore, okay?” she said with feigned sympathy. “This is a big deal. And all of us have been in the class for two and three years in a row. I think you’re better off just observing, don’t you?”

I never made the mistake of correcting Vanya again.

© Cara Rosalie Olsen

Sunlight filtered in from the overhead skylights, illuminating the tops everyone’s heads and splashing everything else with a soft, canary haze. Everything about the large, open room was inviting—which was why, I supposed, many of the upperclassmen chose to remain here, in the cafeteria, rather than take advantage of their earned liberties by wandering off campus to eat.

Surrounding the stone fireplace was a den of sorts, decorated with rugs, tables, a L-shaped purple couch, and plenty of comfortable chairs with teens sprawled over them, reading, playing instruments, or just catching up on the last four periods. Many of the students, however, had opted to dine outside on the patio, the norm when the weather was nice. Outside, all along the terrace of the cafeteria, clusters of teenagers convened at large tables beneath umbrellas, or lounged on chaises. Something red and very fast came whizzing high over my head, landing with a tinny sound on the floor behind me. A Frisbee, I saw, and not at all surprised. It was fairly common that a piece of the back wall went completely missing, the floor to ceiling glass doors having been opened and concealed, to better display the panoramic ocean view that lie beyond. Even after nearly a full year and a half of accommodations and views such as this one, I didn’t think I would ever be inured to the extravagance; it was like living in a dream sometimes.

Emily glanced over her shoulder when I fell behind, fixated on the turquoise sky and the tall cliffs lending its name to our school. I still found it difficult to imagine that this room, in its entire grandiose splendor, actually paled in comparison to a few other areas of campus; some, having no reason or purpose to be there, I had yet to see for myself, the theater and track and field areas the first coming to mind.

It seemed no matter where the paths led or ended, there existed not one tiny pocket of Shorecliffs incapable of marveling all my senses. I felt considerably lucky, of course, to spend my weeks and months at a school this beautiful; but often the feeling was overshadowed with pangs of disheartenment and something I could only describe as incomplete. It didn’t seem entirely fair that, while I enjoyed the best and the finest, so many were left to make do with the bare minimum.

© Cara Rosalie Olsen

Forced to keep a slow pace, I gazed around idly, taking in the full scope of the greenhouse: the ambrosial smells, the melodic sounds, the flowers and foliage leaping from the Earth in hues related to pink, purple, and red, but carried no official name.

Above me, the clear panels sparkled, shimmery rays splattering all living things with its yellow nourishment, and pouring out a soft, glowing ambiance over everything it touched. Even in stillness, everything under the sun seemed to be in motion: stretching in incipience, bursting into bloom, or yawning—not quite ready to emerge.

Nearing the center of the gothic dome, I passed by the largest pond, home to hundreds of koi and goldfish, adorned with shiny green lily pads huddling and clustering together in secretive groups. The pond was flanked by swaths of green grass, ideal for sitting with a book and absorbing the gentle sunlight; however, it likely wasn’t the pond that offered my favorite spot, but the bridge—much like a rainbow—leading from one side of the greenhouse to the other, where I found myself drawn. There, the watermill—both scenic and functioning—was closest; I could perch on the ledge, let my feet dangle, and just . . . dream.

Every day, it seemed, something magical happened inside these glass walls.

© Cara Rosalie Olsen

The chateaux, in its prime, was inarguably the most stunning property on the block consisting of eight houses—or so we were told by Monsieur Desmarais, the previous and only owner before us. Elderly as he was, though, at the time we met him, there beneath a mask of wrinkles and dim blue eyes was a man of stature, elegance, and an appreciation for lovely things—namely my mother, with his ardent gaze and lingering kisses to the hand. Led by curiosity soon after moving in, I decided to do a Google search on Monsieur Desmarais, unearthing several black and white photos of a dark haired regal man somewhere in his late twenties. I was both surprised and not at all surprised by what I learned about him.

Besides possessing a significant wealth, he was also thought to be a direct relative of those belonging to French nobility. As I continued my research, there were names I recognized and some I did not, but a Viscount Châtillon-Blois was certainly one I was familiar with, having read a fair amount of 12^th century liturgy in preparation for a History report. Driven to the states in an effort to expand a textile franchise, Desmarais had hired a horde of architects to build a suitable home for him. Months later, “The Chateaux” was completed and Desmarais made his mark on what had formerly been thought to be a relatively quiet part of town. Not long after his effusive arrival did an equally unrestrained reputation follow, causing quite a commotion and stir among nearby residents. Fond of entertaining, he had stressed to his architects the importance of a proper salle de bal to host lavish parties. Although he remained in Amiens, France—his birthplace—until construction was complete, dispatches denote his extensive involvement as overseer, demanding that every decision, large and minute, be discussed with him before proceeding. This request made for many delays, pushing back the speculated completion date by over six months. The outcome, however, was nothing short of glorious. While the text dictating the ballroom’s sumptuous construct and borderline garish French décor was numerous, I could only find one picture.

© Cara Rosalie Olsen