Wishing Pearl

My first words of thanks go to my Savior, Jesus Christ. Not only did He rescue me from my own poor choices, but He gave me the privilege to share His truth through my passion for writing. I feel so fulfilled by what He’s allowed me to do, and I am humbled that He would choose me … but so grateful that He did.

Next, I owe so much to my hubby, Wil, who has so selflessly given of his time and some of his own ambitions to allow me the freedom to live as a full-time writer in a house with six children. What a rare man I’ve married. I love you, Wil.

And those six kids of mine: Erik, Natalie, Emily, Logan, Megan, and Ryleigh. I pray the words I write will touch your life in some way, for among all the youth of this world, you are my first calling, and I love you so very much. Thank you for being who you are, and for loving me for who I am.

Grandma Party—with a name like that, need I say more? You’re such a bright spot in my life, and your unfailing support and encouragement of me are so appreciated. You are the best mom and most awesome Grandma Party in the world! I love you.

I owe a debt of gratitude to my wonderful agent and friend, Chip MacGregor. Chip, you’ve taught me a lot this year, and I don’t just mean about publishing. Your humility, kindness, and humor have spurred me on whenever I got discouraged. I can’t thank you enough for believing in me when your broca and I joined forces to make you take me on as a client and then for continuing to suffer my incessant e-mails. Bless you.

And Valerie Comer. What’s there to say? Not only have you taught me more than I ever knew I needed to know, but you’ve held my hand over every single word on every single page that I’ve written. Often more than once. I hope my readers realize that this book wouldn’t be what it is without your fine-tooth comb. Thank you for your commitment and, most of all, your friendship.

My writer-sister-friends. Jenny B. Jones, Cara Putman, Kim Cash Tate, Cindy Thomson, Marybeth Whalen, and Kit Wilkinson. God knew I needed you guys. I’ll never stop thanking Him for uniting us as a tiny little family in the world of books. Your prayers over my writing, my family, and my walk mean so much to me, and I’m honored to be able to pray for you and share this journey with you, too.

To my CYAW critique partners who had a part in this book: Ann Miller, Lynn Rush, and Diana Sharples. Thank you for dropping everything to take a look when I needed you. Your input meant so much to me, and I’m forever grateful.

Friends at Barbour Publishing. Not a day goes by that I don’t thank God for your constant support of my work. You have believed in me since day one—still shaking my head in wonderment at that—and you continue to call me one of your own. Thank you for working tirelessly to see the shelves filled with more books for young adults.

Cynthia Gramm … my heart friend. Thank you for the years of prayers and prodding. You’re the best sista friend a girl could have. I love you. Don’t forget to save a seat on the sea of glass if you get there before me. If it’s me who arrives first, you know I’ll be waiting.

E
ven the happiest of songs could sound mournful on the oboe if played just right. Olivia Mansfield pulled the instrument from between her lips and traced her fingers along the silver tracks and keys that reminded her of the braces she wore on her teeth last year. The oboe understood her. It sang her somber song. Melancholy and forlorn, her band director once called it. Perfect words to describe its cry
and
Olivia.

Buzz
. Olivia jumped as the intercom in her bedroom suite intruded.

“Are you almost done with that incessant noise?” barked a crackling voice.

Five more minutes had been the plan—but not anymore. She hurried to the wall and jabbed the T
ALK
button. “I’ll be at least another half hour,
Chuck.”
Charles hated when Olivia called him that, almost as much as he hated the sound of the oboe. Which wasn’t nearly as much as he hated her.

“Well, hurry up.”

The speaker clicked and fell silent.

Olivia tipped the bell of her instrument in the direction of the door and blew a long, angry note, loud enough to make her stepfather’s acne-scarred skin crawl just like he made hers every time he came near. She
could
wait and practice later when he wasn’t home, but why should she? Only two more years of high school band and then, hopefully, a prestigious music school somewhere very far away. Making that dream come true required practice—lots of it. It wasn’t her fault Charles couldn’t tolerate the sound.

The door to her room flew open. Mom rapped her knuckles on the frame then bustled in looking perfect as usual in her designer clothes and impeccable makeup. Her big brown eyes surveyed the room.

“Hi, Mom. Thanks for knocking.” Olivia gave her a raised eyebrow then continued her song. If her room were smaller, it might be considered a pigsty. Luckily, the enormity swallowed the mess, making it look only mildly untidy. Hopefully Mom wouldn’t complain too much about all the dirty designer clothes littering the walnut floors.

“Sorry. I’m just in a hurry.” Mom rushed over to the king-sized four-poster bed and yanked the silk duvet cover up over the rumpled sheets. “I wish you’d take better care of this beautiful room, Liv. Charles has been more than generous to pay for all of this and everything else you’d have only dreamed of having—like this Egyptian cotton.”

Yeah, Charles had bought Olivia all that stuff, but only so he’d look good to everyone else—certainly not to make
her
happy. “I never asked him for any of this.” Olivia swiveled in the desk chair she’d pulled to the center of the room and gestured at her expansive quarters. The sitting area looked like a high-tech home theater pictured in a magazine, and the marble and granite bathroom would have satisfied a queen. The jetted tub
was
nice, but Olivia would never admit that to Charles. “Besides, I’m going to get in the bed in a couple of hours anyway, so why bother?”