1st 5 Pages January Workshop- Wenger Rev 2

Name: Haleigh Wenger

Genre: YA contemporary romance

Title: Words in the Sand

Pitch:

Seventeen-year-old Claire has spent every one of her summer vacations at her family’s beach house in Florida sketching and dreaming of art school with her biggest fan--her Opa. This summer Claire’s plan is to discover her niche as an artist with his help. But when her Opa dies right before summer break, her plans are derailed, and all he leaves her is an application to enter a sand sculpting contest.

Claire has never even made a decent sandcastle, but she meets outdoor artist Foster at the beach and they join forces to win the contest. They spend the humid days at the beach surfing, sculpting, and devouring ice cream until a secret threatens to close in on their perfect summer. Foster is  homeless and hiding out from the older brother who’s supposed to be his legal guardian.

When Claire’s parents find out, they ban her from dating him. Then Foster’s brother finds him and tries to drag him back home. Their relationship and their shot at the sculpting contest are both on the line unless Claire can protect Foster from his toxic brother and convince her parents that Foster is more than his status quo.

Pages:

“I can’t believe Opa won’t be home with us,” I say. The funeral’s been over for almost an hour, but I still can’t stop my hands from shaking when I think about it.

No one says anything, but Mom and Dad both pull me into a sandwich style hug as we reach the front steps of the beach house. Mom runs her French manicured nails down my back, and I shiver and pull closer. My sister, Livvy, pockets her phone for a millisecond and reaches over to squeeze my hand.

“It sucks,” she says. You know it’s bad if Livvy is offering support.

Dad turns to Mom, Livvy, and me before turning the key in the lock and pushing the coral-colored door open. He extends his arms out in front like we’ve won a prize. We’re all mourning Opa still, but family traditions are Dad’s hill to die on, and swinging open the beach house door at the beginning of every summer is his keystone. Thank goodness I had enough foresight to insist on driving my own car to Florida. Me and Livvy crammed together for fifteen hours of silent passive aggression from her, and nerves about the funeral from me. But the long drive was worth it because I’ll have my freedom the next three months whenever I need space.

Newsflash: I already need space.

“Do you think he left us anything?” My voice is higher than I want it to be. Instead of an offhand question, I sound a little crazed. I feel it too--sweaty, wide-eyed, and wild. It’s not a good look for me.

Mom and Dad glance at each other before looking back at me. “Sorry Claire,” Dad says. “He didn’t leave us anything except for the beach house. But all of his belongings are still here until the rest of the family goes through them later today.”

I nod like I understand. But I don’t, not really. Opa and I have always been close, so it’s hard to believe he would leave me with nothing just when he knew I need him the most. I know he didn’t die on purpose, but jeez.

“Oh. Right.”

Livvy exhales so loudly I almost mistake it for a gust of wind. “Seriously, this is getting old. I don’t have time to stand here bonding with you guys. I’ve got a summer vacation to get to.”

Dad pockets his crinkly smile to raise his eyebrows at her. “This is the beginning of our family summer, Liv. Let’s enjoy the time together.”

Livvy plants one hand on her hip and sucks in her cheeks while Dad ceremoniously fusses over invisible smudges on the seashell-plated light switches. She glances at me to gauge my annoyance level, but I'm too busy taking it all in to help make fun of Dad. The first day back to the beach house is like the first day back to breathing after a long nine months away in land-locked Kentucky.

Livvy pushes past the rest of us standing in the doorway and sneaks down the hall. Into the last bedroom on the right, the one she claimed five summers ago once we were old enough to realize it was the biggest and most private. I swear I’m still missing hair in the spot she pulled a chunk out of that June, too. Apparently, it was a rough year.

“I’m going to look around,” I say.

My parents both reach over to squeeze my arm before they drag their suitcases to the master bedroom. The first room past the entry and the most beach themed, with its aqua paint and starfish applique pressed just above the door knob. As soon as they close the door behind them, Mom’s not-so-subtle whispering starts.

“What are we going to do about this, Aaron? We can’t have Livvy sneaking around with boys all summer like she did last year.”

Dad mumbles something I can’t make out.

“Claire will be fine. She just misses my dad. And he was supposed to take her on their big art tour this year…”

More faint responses from Dad, then a door closes and the sound of water from the shower whirs through the pipes in the ceiling above me.

I thought Opa dying would make Mom sad, quieter maybe, but she’s business as usual. I stop in front of the floor-length mirror opposite the entryway, avoiding my reflection as I try to tune my parents out. I reach up to let my fingertips graze the row of pictures taped to its sides. My favorite is a small and blurry picture of me at the beach with Opa last summer in front of an impossibly perfect pink and orange sunset. Not pictured is the bonfire, Mom’s turkey dogs we had been conspiring to bury, and the marshmallows we planned to gorge on instead. I am hovering over Opa’s shoulders, stretching my arms around his neck from behind, while he sits in a collapsible beach chair. It was taken right after his first heart attack, when even doing little things like standing were too much for him.

“Find art wherever you go. The world is brimming with inspiration,” he told me, right at the end, the same week we were packing to head home. I didn’t guess it would be the last beach trip we’d share.

I use my fingernail to loosen the tape on the picture and slip it into the back pocket of my shorts. I have a feeling I'm going to need a reminder of Opa close to me this summer.

I sense her behind me even though I missed the sound of her bedroom door closing. “I can’t do this summer without him, Mom. I seriously can’t.” My voice cracks as I turn to face her.

I gesture limply to the bright room. Opa’s beach house, where my parents brought me the summer after I was born. I want so badly to walk into the next room and find him hunkered down in his leather recliner, absentmindedly picking at the loose folds on the armrest with his eyes trained on the pages of some gigantic mystery novel. The overpowering smell of peppermint on his breath. I thought for sure he’d leave some of his books for me, since I love them almost as much as he did.

Mom’s mouth is already pulling down, her shoulders slumped. “Honey—”

I shake my head to ward off whatever she’s going to say. Nothing makes this better. “This was supposed to be The Summer of Art. I’m supposed to be working on my early admission packet, but he’s not even here to help me. And our trip...”

Her bottom lip wavers. “We all miss him. And we’ll figure it out. I promise. You have good grades and you’re talented--your application isn’t in jeopardy just because you haven’t been to every single art museum in central Florida.”

That was the plan. Opa and I had been mapping our trip to as many semi-local art museums as we could find since last summer. He promised to use his connections to help me apply to colleges for the arts during early admission at the end of summer. Now the trip is off. Besides majorly missing him, I needed Opa to help me find my place as a budding artist, something I can’t ask my parents for since they don’t know the difference between Jackson Pollock and Banksy.

A rapping on the door signals the arrival of the extended family.