Dear Mr./Ms. XXXX,
Fifteen year old Rosemary has arrived in Nice, France, with
one goal in mind: to escape the strict
confinement of her former life and carve out a place for herself as a new
member of the host family she’s purposefully selected. Her
mother believes Rosemary is in Arizona, while her best friend thinks she’s in
Paris. Her host parents think she came
to study art and learn the French language.
Only Rosemary knows the truth.
Once summer ends, she has no intention of returning home.
Rosemary soon finds that living her carefully crafted new life
is harder than she ever thought, as she tries to hide her lack of artistic
talent and the one thing about herself she hates the most: the communication
disorder that keeps her from speaking clearly. While dealing with her far-too perceptive host
mother and a guy who can’t seem to leave her alone as she juggles her many
lies, Rosemary soon uncovers secrets that threaten to destroy her only chance for
success. She is so desperate not to
expose who she really is that she may tell the biggest lie of all to stay, even
if that lie could destroy the life of someone who cares for her.
My contemporary young-adult novel, The French
Impressionist, is complete at 60,000 words.
I have been a member of the Society of Children’s Book Writers and
Illustrators since 2009. I’ve been a
speech-language pathologist for thirteen years, a profession that continues to
increase my love for children’s literature.
I appreciate your time and consideration.
Sincerely,
Rebecca Bischoff
THE
FRENCH IMPRESSIONIST
by Rebecca Bischoff
CHAPTER ONE
I’m here because I
lied.
I know it was
wrong. My heart stings inside me; but I
don’t care. I got away. I’m the only fifteen year-old I know who has
never been alone with a friend. I’ve
never been to the mall, never been on a date, never walked half a block by
myself. But all that is about to change,
thanks to my lie.
The world is no longer
black and white. Outside is a crayon
box-full of colors; with the blues melting together into a perfect painting of
sea and sky. Through the open shop door I smell the freshness
of the orange and bergamot trees that quiver outside in the soft Mediterranean
breeze, along with the scents of hot sun on sand, salty ocean, and a puff of
sweet vanilla air exhaled from a nearby bakery. A tram whirs by and clangs its bell. Voices pass the shop, murmuring in the
unfamiliar cadences of a foreign language, leaving behind a cloud of gentle
laughter. I start to laugh, too. I take in my freedom like a drowning person
gulps the air. No matter how many more
half-truths or fibs I have to tell, or how much bold-faced BS I have to spew,
I’ll do it.
I won’t go back home.
