Chapter 1 of The Secret Lives of Princesses (Unedited)

Chapter 1

Monday

My name is Jasmine Patel, and I have the perfect life.

Two loving parents.

Four older brothers that most girls would consider hot.

Lots of money, fancy cars, cool clothes.

Like I said. Perfect.

But it’s all a lie.

A rouse.

A joke.

On the outside, everything seems like it’s rock solid. But on the inside, everything is slowly falling apart, piece by piece.

It’s those little pieces that most people don’t see. Tiny secrets that I hold deep within me.

Secrets like how my parents are on the brink of a terrifying divorce.

Or how my brothers have all moved out because my house is a war zone.

Or the fact that I’m a fraud. A circus clown with a painted smile. A girl stuck between two lives. One that I want to live, and one that everyone else expects me to live.

I sit in my first-period art class, scribbling in the corner of a clean, white sheet of paper. The rhythmic movement of my pen sends my entire body into zen mode.

I do that a lot. Scribbles. Doodles. Sketching. I love it all. Lately, my pen seemed to make its way onto every drawable surface it can find. Paper. Posters. Anything that used to be a tree, really.

Long clean lines have formed into a thin woman wearing a slim fitting white top and black skirt. Her head’s turned to the left, looking at something I haven’t drawn yet. One hand’s adjusting her oversized sunglasses, while the other hand clutches a perfectly square purse.

 I have a love/hate relationship with squares. I used the shape in every picture I’d ever drawn. It felt safe. Familiar. With its equal sides and tidy lines. There were no surprises with squares. Cubes. Boxes that everything fit into. I really shouldn’t have felt any malice with the shape. It’s just that, lately, it felt like that safe, square box had a tight lid on it.

And I was stuck inside.

Screaming.

Mrs. Finnegan, my art teacher, sat below an overhead camera in front of the classroom. The camera projected her hand - and the thick black pencil within it - onto a huge television screen that filled up nearly a quarter of the entire wall.

She was shading in the bottom part of a hand-drawn egg that stood narrow side up.

It reminded me of the sketches mom used to make when I was younger.

Tigers.

Lions.

Jackals.

Mom would watch a show on Animal Planet and the second the credits rolled she’d get out her sketch pad and start drawing. I used to love watching her pencil move across the thick paper. I loved how quiet everything became. How calm her face was.

She used to hold her breath while she drew. I counted the seconds of breathless silence. Sometimes she didn’t breath for an entire minute. Sometimes it was only ten seconds. It was as if she was holding her breath so that she can share it with the animals her pencil was bringing to life. But, when I was twelve-years-old, mom stopped drawing. It was around the same time that she stopped smiling. I wasn’t sure which came first. The end of her sketches, or the end of her smiles.

At first, I’d picked up drawing and painting to try to bring back mom’s happiness. But, after a while, I realized that there was no going back. My mother was never going to be happy again. I’d lost her to the rage that was her and my father’s relationship. Their anger filled the house with a tense cloud so thick that sometimes it was hard to breathe. My art became my air supply. My lifeline. My desert oasis on a bleak and cruel world.

I loved art and considered myself a pretty good painter. I loved the way painting allowed me to explore parts of myself that I didn’t even know existed. I could express my grief, anxiety, anger or even love through colors. I could hide my emotions in pictures. I could scream at the world using shapes and textures and no one would ever know. It was liberating and the one thing that I was truly passionate about.

So passionate, in fact, that I'd made it my goal in life to take a summer internship class from my idol, and favorite artist, Devinta Holly. Devinta was smart, outlandish, and crazy talented. She did what she wanted and didn't care what anyone else thought of her. New York Times called her the bad girl of the art world, pointing out her short, purple hair, tattoos, and her penchant for being tabloid fodder. True, her persona was part of her allure, but I loved her for the purest of reasons. Her art spoke to me on levels that I didn’t even understand yet. She was like a cross between van Gough and Andy Warhol. It was all bright colors and pop art paired with these beautiful classical landscapes and swirling skies.

Only Devinta could make me cry with a brush stroke.

A hue.

A well-placed dot.

A summer with her would change my entire life. There was so much she could teach me, and I was desperate to learn at her feet. All I needed was five paintings showing off my work and a letter of recommendation.

I had the letter covered. Mrs. Finnegan had already promised me that. Now it was just the matter of doing five paintings that would knock Devinta’s socks off.

I had that covered too.

In the little time I had between school, friends, my cat Raja, and homework, I’d painted several pieces that I knew Devinta would love. I’d studied her technique. Every line, every shape, every stroke, and I knew that these paintings were just the sort of thing she would appreciate.

I felt it in my bones.

I had a picture of one of the paintings on my phone, and I planned on showing it to Mrs. Finnigan after class to get some pointers.

After all, even perfection could be improved, right?

Mrs. Finnegan’s pencil finally stopped moving, and she turned her head to look at us.

“The difference between an amateur drawing and a piece of art is shading,” Mrs. Finnegan said. “The perfect blend of shadow and light can turn a simple sketch into a masterpiece.”

I stopped sketching and returned my attention to the second sheet of paper in front of me.

I’d already drawn my egg, but the shading wasn’t quite right. I started working on the shading again when there was a knock on the classroom door.

This was the third knock since class started.

We got a lot of visitors in this classroom. Artist from around the world who gave special lessons. Freshmen students who had to observe the upperclassmen at least three times a semester. And then there was Mr. Mann, the principal, who considered himself an art critic. He liked to walk in unannounced and skim through our pieces as if he’d find some hidden jewel among the baked clay plates and symmetrical tribal mask.

Mr. Mann had been the source of the first three visits today. He must’ve been bored in his office. Why else would he visit us three times in twenty minutes just to “observe”.

I kept my eyes on my paper, not interested in Mr. Mann’s searching eyes and witty comments about an art show he’d seen recently. Seriously, could he try any harder? It was like he was vying for a spot at the cool kid's table or something.

I blocked out everything around me and was deeply focusing on shading my egg when a single, horrifying phrase pulled my attention.

“Class, this is Oliver Santiago. He’ll be joining us for the remainder of the semester.”

My head shot up, and my eyes went wide. There he was.

The bane of my existence.

Oliver Santiago.

My jaw clenched, and tension clawed up my back like a hairy tarantula out for blood.

Oliver was dressed in his usual sloppy style. Black hair in desperate need of a cut, eyes so dark they reminded me of tar pits, carelessly untucked shirt, jeans that were shredded around the ankles, and dirty, black sneakers.

His demeanor was too confident. Too cocky. I saw it in the way he looked at the eighteen people who inhabited this classroom from seven thirty to eight fifteen every morning; as if he expected a hero’s welcome.

Sadly, a few kids gave him what he wanted. One kid even whooped.

Suck up.

Not that I blamed the kid.

Everyone wanted to get on the school’s resident bad boy’s good side. The other option was being on his bad side. But that’s where the teasing, pranking, and punches in the face laid. No one wanted to be on Oliver Santiago’s bad side.

Except for me.

I wanted Oliver to disappear off the face of the earth, and I was willing to be on whatever side it took to make that happen.

Oliver’s eyes landed on me, and he winked.

I growled in response, which seemed to pull a smile from him. I swear that Oliver was intolerable. Incorrigible. Irredeemable.

And any other word in the English dictionary that meant douche-wad.

“Ollie-” Mrs. Finnegan’s face stretched as if she’d just made a grave mistake. “Do you mind if I call you Ollie?”

Ollie shrugged his response and gave her a charming smile meant to hide how much of a degenerate he was. “Consider me re-named, Mrs. Finn.”

A low titter escaped her lips, which she quickly covered with her graphite smudged fingers.

Really? Was he seriously trying to charm our teacher?

Everyone called Oliver, Ollie. It wasn’t like Mrs. Finnegan was the first one. Heck, he’d introduced himself to me as Ollie. That right there was one of the reasons I couldn’t stand him. He was too sure of himself. Too bold. Something about the whole thing screamed pretense, but apparently, I was the only one who saw the warning signs.

Not that I’d discussed my thoughts about him with anyone. I hadn't even mentioned his name to my friends. I made it a point to not give Ollie anymore of my time than necessary.

Mrs. Finnegan rested her finger against her chin.

“Okay, Ollie, you can sit…”

She scanned the classroom.

So did I.

There were only eighteen students in my class, but we had nineteen desks. It suddenly occurred to me where the extra desk was and I closed my eyes to stop the full-on hissy fit raging inside of me.

The extra seat was right next to mine.

“... Next to Jasmine Patel,” Mrs. Finnegan announced.

Why couldn’t the stupid desk magically disappear and reappear somewhere else? Preferably Antarctica. I huffed again. This sucked. First I had to practically carry Ollie through chemistry, and now I was going to be doing the same thing in art. That was the last thing I had time for. What was he doing here anyway? It was so late in the semester. Why was he transferring so suddenly?

Ollie tipped his chin up at me like we were old friends -we weren't- and slid into the seat next to mine. He wiggled his eyebrows in my direction and smiled wide.

“Hello, Princess. We meet again.”

I growled and focused on Mrs. Finnigan, not acknowledging his greeting or his presence. With any luck, he’d get the hint and leave me alone.

Not that that particular method had worked before.

Oliver “Ollie” Santiago and I were chemistry lab partners.

Correction.

I did all the work while he sat there dozing off, texting, or generally screwing around. I thought of Ollie like I’d think of a lead weight. He dragged down my chemistry grade and my mood whenever we were together. Of course, I’d complained and asked the teacher, Mr. Khan, for a different lab partner, but, so far, I’d been stuck with Ollie all semester.

Needless to say, it’d been a long semester.

Mrs. Finnigan looked at her watch.

“Okay, we only have a few more minutes, but I want to let everyone know that the winners of the annual art show are going to be announced Wednesday morning. And, I have some more good news. We’ve added an additional prize. On top of the winner having their very own display next to the main office, as well as a write up in the school newspaper, the principal has recently requested that the lockers in the main hallway be moved further down. So, in that new empty wall space, the competition winner will paint a mural.”

My heart stopped cold. This was a huge opportunity. A game changer.

I'd already entered the art contest. Now, if I won, I’d be painting a school mural. That would defiantly pump up my letter of recommendation and earn me some points with Devinta. I'd bet it'd practically be guaranteed a spot in the Summer Internship program.

I wanted to win the art contest before. Now, I craved it.

The bell rang, and Mrs. Finnigan looked around as if she’d never heard a sound like it before, even though she’d been teaching at St. Mary’s for over a decade.

“Get those pencil drawings into me by tomorrow,” she called over the sound of bags being packed, chairs sliding, and feet stomping. “I want to see some beautifully shaded eggs.”

Eggs. Right. I’d have to get my egg finished by tomorrow. I put it on my mental to-do list and started to pack up my things.

“Don’t get too excited about this contest, Princess,” Ollie said. “It’s just another way to keep us in line.”

I shifted my eyes to him, readying myself for another long-winded speech about conformity and standing out instead of fitting in. Over this past semester, I’d come to learn that Oliver Santiago was a bit of an anarchist. Everything he said was about going against the status quo and not allowing people to put you into a box.

I didn’t buy any of it, of course. I saw this whole “philosophy” for what it was. An excuse to fail in school and not follow the rules. I traveled the straight and narrow. Ollie threw caution into the wind and ran in zigzags. We were as opposite as two people could be.

“For your information, I’ve entered the contest, and I’m excited about it,” I announced.

“Oh yeah?” His head tipped to the side and he examined me, his eyes twinkling in surprise. “Never pegged you for the creative type.”

My face squeezed in irritation. I’d only sat next to him in chemistry lab for an entire semester. Of course, he wouldn’t know anything about me, even though I knew more about him than I wanted to. Like his favorite color was black, he had three friends: Jean, Jeff, and Able, and he loved pretzels. He always snuck bags of them into chem lab and munched on them. Loudly.

“Maybe if you came to class more often and looked at something else besides your phone, you would’ve seen some of my work.”

He smirked like he’d just figured out something important.

I shuddered to think of what that something was.

“I’ll bet you’re a painter.”

I could hear the mockery in his voice, and it made my insides boil.

“Bugs. Flowers. Maybe a sunrise or two?”

He was right, but the way he said it still made my back teeth clench. “So what?”

“So, you think that painting a garden makes you an artist?”

My eyes narrowed as hurt indignation filled my chest. Ollie was the only boy who could make me consider murder in ten words or less.

I firmed up my chin, ready to put him in his place.

“What would you know about it? You don’t have a creative bone in your entire body. You’re probably just here because you got kicked out of another class.”

He smirked. “Is that what you think, Princess?”

My temper exploded. “Stop calling me Princess!”

“A rich girl who lives up in her palace near Central Park. What else am I supposed to call you? The help? I’ll bet you don’t even make your own bed.”

“Don’t call me anything. Just pretend like you don’t know me.”

“Do you mean biblically?”

I growled, which pulled a chuckle from him. If I didn’t know better, I’d say that he was enjoying baiting me.

Note to self: start looking for places big enough to stash a six-foot-tall boy’s body.

“Relax, Princess. Don’t get your panties in a twist. Paint your boring flowers, buy American made cars, and continue to feed the beast.”

His words hit me right in my gut.

I sucked in a breath and glared at Ollie so hard that my eyes hurt. He smiled wider.

“My flowers are not boring. And from now on, don’t speak to me. Don’t look at me. Don’t even breathe in my direction. Just continue to waste your life goofing off, failing at everything, and being a loser. It’s what you do best, right?”

His cheeks blanched, and he returned a glare just as hot as mine.

In seconds, he’d picked up his book bag and stomped out the door, tossing a ball of paper in the trash can along the way.

I hoped he was furious, because so was I.

He’d taken his comments too far this time, and I’d had enough!

I finished packing my own things and headed for the door. I was almost through it when I remembered that I had to talk to Mrs. Finnigan. Ollie’s antics had thrown me off my game.

Just like every other day of my life.

I stopped and took a deep breath. Then, I pulled my phone out of my pocket and navigated Devinta Holley’s official website. Right on the front page, there was a box with information about the summer internship as well as the available number of slots. A few months ago, it showed fifty. Now, there were only ten slots left.

Only ten more people she’d consider working with for the summer.

I needed to be one of those ten.

I closed my phone and turned around.

“Mrs. Finnigan, can I talk to you?” I asked.

She smiled.

Mrs. Finnegan was an older, jittery woman, who appeared even older by the three warts that grew from her face. Her hands constantly shook, wrung and clutched. It was like she’d gotten a caffeine IV or something. Even her eyes were skittish, always darting around the room at us or at her supplies. The only time she seemed at peace was when she had a pencil or brush in her hands.

“Yes, of course, dear.” She smoothed back her graying, brown hair. “Did you hear Ollie call me Mrs. Finn. I kind of like it. It’s groovy. What do you think? Should I make it a thing?”

Her cheeks were reddening in excitement, and I gave her an unsure smile.

“To be honest, I like Mrs. Finnigan better. It’s… uh… distinguished.”

I actually preferred Mrs. Finn, but I would never side with Ollie on anything. Ever.

Mrs. Finnigan looked at me with unabashed disappointment.

“Oh. Distinguished, huh?”

I nodded. “Yes. It has a very… uh… adult… ring to it.”

She frowned. I could tell I’d just burst her bubble, but I only felt slightly bad about it. She shouldn’t have let Ollie charm her in the first place. It would only end in heart ache when she found out what a jerk he really was.

“Thank you for your honesty.” She slowly sat down in her chair, her eyes taking on a far away look, as if trying to come up with another cool nickname before class. “Did you want something, dear?”

Oh yes. the reason I was here.

“Yes. Do you remember Devinta Holly’s summer internship program?”

“Yes. And don’t worry. I still intend on writing you that letter of recommendation.”

“Thank you. I appreciate that. I just had one more favor to ask you.” I pulled out my phone and opened my pictures. “I started on some of my paintings for the five painting requirement, and I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind critiquing one for me.”

She perked up a bit at that. If there was one thing that Mrs. Finnigan loved more then art, it was critiquing other people’s art. “Of course, dear.”

I handed her the phone and waited patiently as she examined it.

I’d painted a beautiful landscape at sunrise, complete with full, thick oak trees, grass waving in the wind, and even a few bugs. I made sure to use a bright color pallet. Something Devinta would have appreciated. Neon greens for the grass and leaves. Brilliant tangerine for the sunrise.  It was like a bag of skittles had exploded, but I was proud of it.

Mrs. Finnigan looked at the picture for a long time, then she turned the camera upside down and looked at it some more.

Finally, she handed the phone back to me.

Her smile was gone.

What did that mean?

“Did you paint that?” She asked.

I frowned. Did she think I plagiarized the picture? Was that a good thing or a bad thing?

“Yes.” My voice was shaky and I tried to steady it. “I painted it.”

She let out a breath, and squeezed her lips to the side, as if in thought.

“What were you feeling when you painted it?”

“Um… I guess I wanted to paint something that would be good enough for Devinta.”

“But what were you feeling?”

She put her hands in front of her in a pleading motion. Like she really wanted me to answer the question correctly.

Honestly, I didn’t know what she was talking about.

“Um… happy?”

She frowned. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. I was definitely happy.” I think.

“Jasmine, you are a gifted artist. Your technique is developing and your subjects are interesting. That’s a good start. But this,” she gestured to the phone. “It’s just… flat.”

“Flat?”

“Boring. Emotionless. It left me unmoved.”

Confusion deepened my already creased forehead.

“You don’t like it?”

She shook her head.

“It's a pretty picture, but it has no substance. It doesn’t speak to me, or tell me a story. It’s just, there.” She shook her head. “I’m sorry. If you are going to enter paintings like that for your internship, you’re going to have a hard time getting anyone’s attention.”

Her words devastated me.

I’d worked long and hard on this painting.  And now she said that it was boring.

Flat.

Emotionless. That was literally the worst thing that anyone could say to an artist.

Were all of my paintings like that?

Was I like that?

“Look. Go home. Start working on a piece that really speaks to you. Look deep inside yourself, figure out what you want to say, and then use your brush to say it.” She stood and placed her hand on my sagged shoulder. “And no more fluff pieces. Okay?”

I nodded, still in a daze.

‘Okay.”

I felt like crying, but I couldn’t cry in front of her. Artist were supposed to have thick skin. They were supposed to take criticism well. They weren’t supposed to cry when someone didn't like something.

I considered myself an artist, but right then, I wanted to curl into a ball and cry my eyes out.

Mrs. Finnigan sat back down in her chair while I turned to walk away.

Her words followed me like a ghost.

Flat.

Emotionless.

That’s what she thought of my paintings.

How would I ever become a famous painter if my paintings were flat and emotionless?

My chest burned.

My throat hurt.

I felt my eyes start to well and I sniffed back the tears.

I would not cry.

Not here.

Not in front of Mrs. Finnigan and god knew who else would walk in.

I had to keep it together.

I needed to keep it together.

With Mrs. Finnegan’s words ringing in my ears, I finished packing my things and headed for the door. I was almost through it when someone in the trash caught my eye.

Ollie’s paper. It hadn’t been balled up enough and was already starting to unfurl itself. Goodness, did that boy do everything half way. I looked a little closer, curious at the lines and shapes that were slowly revealing themselves.

Had Ollie been drawing?

Out of morbid curiosity, I picked the paper from the trash can and smooth it down on my knee.

It was a pencil drawing of a face. Well, two halves of a face really. The right side of the face was very handsome. Slicked back hair, dark eyes, sharp nose, full lips. There was something sad about it. Something about the way the lowered eyebrows and the turned down mouth. He’d shaded the eyes so perfectly that I thought I saw a spark of life in them. It was intriguing, but at the same time unnervingly.

The second half of the face was a monster.  Pupil-less eyes with big black bags beneath them. Shredded skin. Angular cheekbones. Heavy black brows. Scars. It was gruesome and, yet, I swore that the monster looked happier than the human.

How could the simple face made me feel so many different things at once?

“Jasmine, did you draw that?”

Mrs. Finnigan plucked the paper from my fingers. “Now this is what you should be entering for that internship. It’s absolutely breathtaking.”

I turned to face her, keeping my eyes on the crumpled drawing and not on my hurt feelings.

“I didn’t draw it,” I said sadly. “Ollie did. I just rescued it.”

She shook her head in awe.

“Oh. Well, it’s still beautiful.” She held the drawing up so that we both could see it. “You can really see the artist anguish from the way he shades the eyes so differently.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you see on the man’s side how the shading is mostly focused on the eyes and around the mouth, while on the monster’s side the shading is only on the outside of the main drawing. He’s telling two completely different stories with just one picture. Its brilliant. You can really learn from this picture.”

“Me learn from Ollie? Yeah, right?”

“No, I’m serious. Every piece must tell a story. It must reflect back the ugliest part of ourselves and make them seem beautiful. That’s what art is, dear.”

I stared at the picture, letting the image seep into my brain. It seemed like every time I looked at it I saw something different.

Did Ollie really do this in ten minutes or was this something he’d been working on for a while?

And, more importantly, when did Ollie become capable of something like this? Something that involved actual work?

“I think I’m going to hang onto this,” she said. “It’s too nice to throw away, even if it’s crumpled.”

She carried the picture back to her desk and lovingly laid it down.

I almost asked if I could keep it. But I didn’t. I didn’t want anything of Ollie. Not even a drawing.

I turned and walked out of the classroom, with the picture still burning it’s way through my brain. My eye caught Ollie casually leaning against a locker, laughing as another kid I didn’t know held a book just over Dana Rich’s head while Ursula Meyers sent flirty grins in Ollie’s direction.

I tried to reconcile this boy with the boy who’d drawn the picture. Were they the same person? Or, was Oliver like his drawing.

Two faces. One a man and one a monster. 


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