Art is the Lie (A Vanderbie Novel) Read Online Free PDF Page B

sucking me in deeper and deeper, crossing over the threshold of reality. Water. Everywhere. Rising violently. I gasped for air, wanting to reach out, to rise above the chaos and grab hold of the shadowy silhouette clinging for life in the fragile boat.
    And then it was gone, sucked through a vortex, leaving only a wash of gray.
    My body sunk into warmth. Exhausted. The last of the piercing needles making a hasty retreat.
    “CeeCee? Are you okay? Should I call someone?”
    I held completely still as my insides quaked, unsure of what was happening to me. I sucked in a short breath and another, praying when I opened my eyes that the world would still be round, rotating on its even-keeled axis and that the boy with green eyes would vanish before he could confirmed what I wasn’t willing to admit to myself. I was losing it.
    “CeeCee. Say something. Two minutes ago you had no trouble forming words.” His rough fingertips brushed my cheek as he pushed back erratic strands of hair that had escaped from under my hat. “You’re face is so pale.”
    Unable to avoid the inevitable, I opened my eyes and turned to his face that was inches from my own, my back cradled against his propped up knee. My eyes latched on to his furrowed brows, and I allowed myself to swim in the soft pools of green that lay below them, safely avoiding the hazardous wasteland of my mind.
    He blinked, bringing my trance to an end. I looked out across the dock. The endless planks hovered over the gray water, dropping off into nothing. An overwhelming urge to see what lay beyond welled up inside me.
    “Is something wrong with you?” His tone was patronizing, effectively breaking the intimate moment. “Do you have these types of spells often?”
    “No!” I blurted at the thought, getting my feet underneath me. I didn’t want his condescending sympathy. “Never. Not once.”
    Quentin was quick to grab my arm. “Don’t rush on my account.”
    I couldn’t stop. I had to stand. I had to walk away from him. The end of the dock was calling out to me. My steps were small. Babyish. The boards creaking under my weight. I didn’t know what I was looking for, I only knew I had to look. I had to see if anything was down there.
    I inched closer, the images in my mind paint ing a picture before I saw it, before I leaned over the edge and found a small wooden rowboat listing gently on the calm waters. The same boat trapped in my head. My legs wobbled and goose-bumps broke out everywhere.
    Quentin grabbed my shoulder and pulled me back. “What are you doing?”
    Gently the boat rocked back and forth. Empty. “This can’t be,” I murmured. “How can this be the same boat?”
    “The same boat as what?” He pulled me back a few more inches.
    “The same boat . . .” I looked back at the spot where I’d been overcome by the images. I looked at Quentin’s face, his eyes returning me to the SAM, to the flurry of images I’d seen that night, almost certain that one had been of this very dock and boat. “How is that possible?”
    “How is what possible?”
    Unable to stop myself, I said, “I’ve seen this boat before.”
    “You’ve been on this boat?”
    I was trapped in a bubble of confusion. My words tried to piece together what my mind couldn’t process. “No, I’ve never been on the boat, but I’ve seen it.”
    “CeeCee, you’re not making any sense.” His voice hardened in frustration. “When did you see it?”
    “Um, right . . . right before I fainted at the SAM.” There. It was out. Like a live wire loose in the air, poised to send people running from me. The truth that something besides fainting had happened. The truth of how normal I wasn’t.
    The lull that hung in the air was a familiar , tense and silent. Painful gears turned, assessments were being made — scales balanced.
    “I don’t understand a word you’re saying,” he said, running his hand through his hair. “You saw a piece of art that looked like this boat?”
    I