To be Maria Read online

  To be Maria

  ~ By Deanna Proach ~

  © 2013 Deanna Proach

  www.deannaproachwriter.com

  www.crusadesandcrusaders.com

  Cover Art designed by Jasmin.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the express written consent of the author of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Other Books by Deanna Proach

  Day of Revenge

  Table of Contents

  DEDICATION

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  Dedication

  For my brother, Andrew

  “Many will say they are loyal friends,

  but who can find one who is truly reliable?”

  ~ Proverbs 20:6

  Acknowledgments

  I'd like to thank Ralph Fraser for his insightful feedback on this book and for his sponsorship.

  I'd like to thank my parents, Nick and Connie, for their enduring love and support. I'd also like to thank everyone from the Driftwood Players Story Theatre Troupe (past and present) for your encouragement.

  I thank Kathy Weick at Smith Publicity and Rhomy at Black Lion Book Tours for help with marketing and publicity.

  CHAPTER 1

  Anya wakes, startled by the loud, repetitive beep of her alarm clock. In a daze, she reaches over the small night stand and slaps the stop button. She groans, her tired eyes half closed, while she slips out from underneath the old, but comfortable blanket.

  Great. I'm so tired. If only I had two more hours. But no. When there's no school, there's work, and that's even worse. I hate that I have to get up at five-thirty every Saturday and Sunday morning. My manager always gives me the worst shifts.

  She shuffles over to the closet. Unlike most other girls in school, she never rummages through the closet in search of the perfect outfit. She rolls her eyes. "Oh God, here we go again: the same jeans, faded tank-tops, baggy t-shirts and sweatshirts. I can't wait until the day comes when I throw away these ugly clothes. I just wish I had the money to buy new clothes, fashionable clothes. Maybe then, I'd fit in at school."

  Anya traces her finger over the delicate cloth of her one and only bohemian-style summer dress. Even the dress is a hand-me-down, worn by her mother back in the 1970s. But it is the only piece of clothing she loves. Unfortunately it's still too cold outside to wear it.

  Thank god for my imagination. I don't know what I'd do without it.

  The things Anya enjoys the most are brushing her hair and writing in her journal. These are the only times she can let her imagination take her away from home. She can pretend to be anything — anything but herself.

  Anya rakes her slender fingers through her long hair. Today, I'm a daughter of a wealthy architect, so I'm going to wear a pair of Tommy Hilfiger jeans and a green peasant top, the revealing one. Then I'll put on that expensive necklace and those silver hoop earrings that Mom bought for me yesterday. She frowns at her clothes. Ugh, who are you kidding, Anya? Why even waste your time pretending to have something when it makes you even more unhappy to realize that you don't have it.

  To get her mind off her clothes, she looks at her mother's photograph, the one that always sits on top of the nightstand. Every time Anya looks at the photograph, she studies her mother's features. Her father used to tell her that she looks so much like her mother, Ana Preschnikov, but, until now, she never gave it much thought. Anya now realizes why her father used to call her Ana. Ana--who must have been in her early twenties the time this photo was taken--boasted the same long, caramel brown hair, chocolate brown eyes, petite, heart-shaped face, slender nose and smooth, cream-colored skin. Anya often wonders what life would be like if her mother was still alive. It has been so many years since she passed away that Anya has forgotten what it's like to have a mother. Sometimes she dreams about her mother and sometimes she longs for the comfort of her tender arms and loving words.

  Her eyes eventually shift away from the photograph to the journal sitting on the floor in front of the nightstand. The front and back cover is of a soft blue and leather. She received it as a Christmas gift from her best friend Patrick a little over one year ago. Since then, she has filled it with her thoughts until only a few empty pages remain. She has planned to leave those pages blank until she purchased another journal--something she has decided to do after work this weekend.

  "Oh heck, I can't wait until the weekend. I really need to clear my mind," she whispers. She changes into a t-shirt and a pair of jeans, grabs the journal off the floor, then walks over to the kitchen.

  The kitchen is messier than usual. Two of the cupboard doors are left open, the sink is filled with dirty dishes and the counter is littered with stale food, wrappers, cutlery and cups that are half-filled with juice. She bites down hard on her lower lip. She can feel the red creep up her neck and over her face. Damnit! Why doesn't my dad clean up after himself? Why does he expect Sophia and I to clean up after him all the time? She sinks into the nearest chair, breathing out a long, angry sigh. Her stomach growls, warning that if she doesn't eat she will spend the entire day tripping over her words and suffering from exhaustion and a bad headache--something she has endured several times in the past.

  Anya leaves her journal, then walks over to one of the open cupboards. As predicted, it is empty save one box of Macaroni and Cheese and a package of Mr. Noodles. Anya shuts the door, then peers into the next cupboard. All that remains in there is a box of Cheerios. She grabs the box, realizing that it's more than half-empty, but thinking that it should be enough to satisfy her until lunch.

  As she opens the fridge door, she hears a shuffling noise from behind. Thinking that it is Sophia, she turns, ready for a round of confrontation. But it is her father and he stands less than one foot away from the doorway. He's hardly ever up this early, so Anya is surprised to see him. For the first time in a long time, he is clean shaven and he's dressed in a red, button-down, flannel shirt that is tucked into blue jeans. Anya suspects that his clothes are also clean because she does not smell any foul stench.

  Anya cocks her left eyebrow. "You're up early."

  "Yeah, I got a new job."

  "Where?"

  "At Home Depot."

  Anya purses her lips. That's not a step up from your last job at Canadian Tire. "Cool, is the pay better?"

  "Yeah, enough to get me by."

  Anya narrows her eyes. "Well, I hope you last at this job," she say
s, slamming the milk and Cheerios down on the table. It's enough to get us by, you self-centered jerk. I hope your new boss doesn't fire your dumb ass like your last boss did.

  "I think so. You gonna to clean this up," he says, pointing at the counter.

  Anya glares at him. "Uh, no."

  "Why not?"

  "Because you were the one who made the dang mess. That's why!"

  He casts her a sharp look. "Don't talk to me like that, young lady."

  "I can talk to you however I want!"

  "Fine then, be that way. I'm off."

  "Clean your stinking mess when you get home from work," Anya yells after him. She slumps into a chair, her eyes brimming with tears. "Don't cry. He's not worth it. Don't let him get you down," she whispers over and over again until the anger ebbs. But when she looks down at the diary, the feeling returns. She flips through it until she comes to a blank page.

  'February 17, 2003.' 'Dear Diary,' she writes underneath the date in the top left corner of the empty page.

  'This day is not off to a good start.' She then writes about her dad, describing him using every foul word in the English language. Once she has spilled her anger and frustration onto the paper, she breathes out a huge sigh. It makes her feel much better. Besides she doesn't want to spend every minute of the day thinking about the people who get her down.

  I'm sorry I used all that bad language. I just needed to let off steam. Anyway, it's time to tell you about the good stuff in my life.

  I'm still really excitement that I got accepted into Mr. Hawthorne's advanced acting class. I know, I already told you this--Patrick's sick of hearing me say this--but this is the best thing that ever happened to me. Mr. Hawthorne doesn't accept anyone into his advanced acting class. Over a hundred students auditioned this year, and out of those auditions, he chose only sixteen students to be in his class. The fact that he chose me over several other good actors is a huge gold feather in my cap.

  Every year, Mr. Hawthorne sponsors one student to attend Vancouver Film School. His sponsorship pays for one year's tuition. This will give me a huge start to my career. I'm busting my ass to show Mr. Hawthorne the best of me because I'm determined to be the recipient of his sponsorship.

  Anya pauses to flex her wrist. She steals a glance at her wrist watch. It reads seven 'o' clock. There is still some spare time to write, thankfully, because she hasn't told her journal everything she needs to say.

  There's this new girl in school. She's our age and she's in our grad class. Her name is Maria and she's from Spain, the country everyone seems to think is cool. There's so many Spanish people who live in this city that it's no wonder why most of them go wide eyed when they think about Spain. I've never been to Europe, but I imagine that Spain's a beautiful country, though I don't think it's any better than any other country in Europe. Or every other country in this world for that matter. I think it's the way Maria dresses and the way she acts that everyone finds so attractive. Well, the popular kids mostly. She's been at Peach Valley Senior High for only two weeks and she's already at the top of the popularity chain. Patrick thinks she's a slut, an easy layover. That's why all the boys are so gaga over her. But I don't know if that's true. I personally think she's drop-dead gorgeous.

  Anya's eyes droop when she thinks about Maria.

  Her clothes are so stylish. I wish I had those kinds of clothes, and--I know I say this almost every day--I wish I was as popular as her. I'd like to get to know Maria--she'd be the coolest friend I'd ever have--but Carly beat me to it. Carly befriended her the moment she set foot in Peach Valley Senior High. Maria's in two of my classes and sometimes I see her in the hallway, but she never says anything to me. It's no wonder why, though. She's Carly's friend.

  Anyway, I think I've told you enough information for one day. I gotta get ready for school. Until next time.

  Love Anya.

  CHAPTER 2

  A loud knock at the front door causes Anya to drop the spoon in her bowl of Cheerios.

  “Oh God, Patrick's here and I’m not ready to leave,” she says, glancing at her watch.

  Sophia comes waltzing into the kitchen, dressed in a skin-tight, blue t-shirt and equally tight fitting jeans, an outfit far too skimpy for a twelve-year old girl to wear.

  Anya narrows her eyes at her sister. “Sophia, where did you get those clothes?”

  “That’s none of your business,” she says, flipping her long, dark hair over one shoulder. Sophia stands four inches taller than Anya and her body is already filling in nicely, something that did not happen to Anya until two years ago.

  “Yes it is, Sophia! You're too young to be walking around in those kinds of clothes,” Anya says. Geez, ever since Sophia started developing, she's turned into a snooty little brat.

  Sophia shoots her a haughty look. “Dad drove me to Zara’s and bought them for me.”

  Anya's jaw stiffens. Dad has never bought a single item of clothing for me. All of my clothes are from the thrift store. Yet he buys my sister new clothes from one of the most expensive clothing stores in town. “Sophia, you know dad doesn't have the money to buy you clothes from Zara's.”

  A series of knocks on the front door interrupts the girls’ argument — much to Anya’s delight.

  “I have to go, or else Patrick will drive off to school without me.”

  “Well, can I get a ride with you?” Her question is more like a demand.

  “No, get a ride on the bus,” Anya says while she dashes out of the room, giving Sophia no chance to pout and swear at her.

  “Finally, Anya. What was taking you so long?” Patrick says, faking an annoyed look.

  Anya can easily detect the smile on his face. “I was eating breakfast. Come on, Patrick, you know I’m not a morning person,” she says, winking at him.

  “I know. That's why I came twenty minutes early.”

  Usually Patrick is clad in a plain t-shirt, corduroys and large, geeky-looking eye glasses. Today, though, he is dressed in a black, leather coat that is un-zippered, revealing a white, button-down shirt, and blue jeans. His unruly brown curls are combed back and held in place by hair spray, and eye contacts replace those ugly glasses.

  Anya first met him in eighth grade, their first year at North Oka Junior High. It was during orientation week that they met.

  “O’Connell is me last name. Me family moved here from Dublin a month ago,” Patrick said when he held out his hand to her.

  She was instantly drawn to his bright smile, freckles, naturally white teeth and Irish accent. But she was more drawn to his keen interest in acting and singing. His talent could move mountains. They never ceased to amaze their teachers and they spent almost every day, performing mini skits, chatting about life, learning and growing together as friends and as young adults.

  In all the years Anya has known Patrick, she has never seen him dress up. She must admit, she really likes his new look: it makes him look charming, manly and sexy.

  “Is this your new look, Patrick?”

  He glances down at himself. “Yes. Don’t you like it?”

  “I love it!”

  He chuckles. “I love your enthusiasm, Anya. Now get ready before your little sister discovers we’re still here.”

  Within seconds, Anya returns, her old canvas knapsack slung over her right shoulder.

  “I’m ready. Let’s hit the road,” she says with an air of authority.

  Patrick locks his arm around hers. “Anya, I have a surprise for you,” he says as they round the corner of the old picket fence, onto the sidewalk.

  Anya’s eyes bulge open and her jaw drops. “Shut-up!”

  “I guess I said it too late,” he says under his breath. Ten feet ahead of them sits a brand new, 2003 model Ford pick-up truck. The sleek, black paint gleams underneath the winter sun.

  “Is that…is that…your truck?”

  “Yes it is, Madame. It's an early grad present from my parents.”

  Anya grins. “That is so awesome. Now we'll finally be right
up there with the popular kids.”

  The smile fades from his face. “Anya, you are way too worried about what the popular kids think of you.”

  She blushes deeply. “No I'm not. I was just making a statement. I really like your truck, Patrick. It suites you to a T.”

  “I do too, and I feel like a man now,” he says, patting the hood. “I don’t need to ask my mom for permission to use her car anymore.”

  “Well, I’m looking forward to having lots of rides in this baby."

  Patrick guides Anya around the front end, over to the passenger side of the truck. “Hop into the cool mobile,” he says, opening the door for her.

  Anya places her knapsack on the clean car mat, then lifts herself up onto the leather seat. Within seconds, Patrick is seated next to her.

  “This is going to get crazy hot in the summertime. You won’t even be able to sit in here,” she says, rubbing the palms of her hands over the stiff leather.

  “Ah, it’ll be okay. This truck has a really good air conditioning system, so it won’t be so bad. And I can always keep the windows rolled down when it's parked,” he says while he starts the engine with one turn of the key. He shifts the lever into drive with so much ease that it makes him look like a pro. Carefully, he swerves the truck into the right lane, pumping on the gas pedal gently, causing the truck to pick up speed as it rolls down the road, past the rows of houses.

  “Wow, Patrick, you're such a good driver. If I didn’t know you, I would have never known you got your N only five months ago.”

  “My dad told me the same thing, that’s why he bought it for me. I can’t wait until I finally get rid of my N, though. Two more weeks.”

  Anya’s eyes droop. “I wish I had the money to pay for driving school. It sucks to be seventeen and unable to drive.”

  Patrick reaches over and pats her on the shoulder. “Anya, you act as if it's the end of the world. You have to realize that you're so young. You have lots of time to get your drivers' license.”