Monday, Wednesday, and Friday

By George M. Lewis

She has a chance to make history in two worlds, but conventional wisdom says she doesnt belong in either. It is a collision between cultures. Camy Reynolds has the ability and the opportunity to become the first African-American prima ballerina in New York City since ballet arrived in the 1700s. In her final year of college, she has also done spectacular work in the prestigious all-boys world of the physics department, and the chairman has picked her to be part of the God Particle Research Team. People in the world of ballet wonder if Camy is going be the first one. Physics leads her into a personal encounter with God she never imagined and possibly a key to understanding life itself. Amid the rising expectations, Camy Reynolds finds an Asian friend and confidant that is full of wisdom and compassion, who helps her cross the bridge from the past and the future. It amounts to a whole lot of pressure that she seems to handle wellmost of the time. Will she make the right choice with love interests Adrian Fisher, scion of a wealthy New York family, pulling her toward ballet? Or will Dr. Carson Bell, a young professor/mentor, encourage her to embrace the God Particle and use it to understand her unique identity? Which will she choose?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Dec 8, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524559182

George M. Lewis

George is a native of Denver, Colorado, where he lives and works. At the top of his list of pleasurable pursuits is writing. He has authored one novel, Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, and has completed two screenplays—Mercy and Monday and Wednesday and Friday. George loves God, and he believes in the power of forgiveness. He enjoys ballet, chess, golf, music, and is active in his church. He cherishes relationships with his kids and grandkids.

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Copyright © 2016 by George M. Lewis.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 12/08/2016

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CONTENTS

About The Cover Art

Acknowledgements

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

Chapter VIII

Chapter IX

Chapter X

Chapter XI

Chapter XII

Chapter XIII

Chapter XIV

Chapter XV

Chapter XVI

Chapter XVII

Chapter XVIII

Chapter XIX

Chapter XX

Chapter XXI

Chapter XXII

Chapter XXIII

Chapter XXIV

Chapter XXV

Chapter XXVI

Chapter XXVII

Chapter XXVIII

Chapter XXIX

Chapter XXX

Chapter XXXI

Chapter XXXII

Chapter XXXIII

Chapter XXXIV

Chapter XXXV

Chapter XXXVI

Chapter XXXVII

Chapter XXXVIII

Eight Months Later

Synopsis

ABOUT THE COVER ART

The Cover Art is from the original oil painting by Monika Luniak entitled BUTTER FLY. She is a versatile and creative artist whose work can be purchased on www.artfinder.com.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I received the idea for this novel in 2009 during a remarkable day of prayer and meditation in Marina Del Rey, California. The ensuing seven years have been a journey of discovery, transcending my own personal experiences, leading me to believe all girls, young women and women still faced challenges and obstacles on their paths to success. I decided to stand with them in their aspirations and dreams for equality and opportunity. Questioning assumptions about the roles society assigned to women has opened new doors, created new realities and led us to sustainable changes that will continue long after we are gone. I honor that movement.

Monday, Wednesday and Friday is a portrait one particular young woman’s desire to know who she is, find her own voice, and live her own truth, on her own terms. I have been told that nothing good ever comes easily, but fortunately we all receive help from kindred spirits along the way. In writing this book, it was uncanny how these angels showed up at the right time, with the right messages, and the right gifts that helped me just when I needed it most.

I want to single out two such people who came into my life at the right time with gifts that helped make this book possible. Louatha Banks Cheese was my editor and my conscience whose critiques helped establish the tone and shape the perspective from which I told this story. Thank you. Dana Roper has been the sage at my side whose appreciation of a story well told and creative insights still live on inside many of the characters in this book. I thank you too.

While I acknowledge those who have helped me, I am responsible for all ideas, content and interpretations of science, art and spirituality you find herein. Finally, I want to acknowledge and thank my children and grandchildren for their love and support, especially since it meant sharing me with the tasks I have created. You are all unique individuals who share one thing; you were born with a God Particle that gave you the Power to Forgive.

George M. Lewis

Denver, Colorado, October 2016

CHAPTER I

At thirty-three thousand feet, the cabin had the hum of a busy little bistro after passengers finished their meals. Several people ordered glasses of wine or beer to enjoy during the tail end of a routine flight between Toronto and New York City. In 21 A, a seat on the exit row, tensions from the Toronto Ballet wrapped around Camy’s chest like a rope. The thought of Don Quixote brought cold chills back from her disappointing performance. Stress became a knife buried in her back between her shoulder blades. It zapped her energy so badly, for relief, she reminded herself, to breathe, just breathe.

Below, the northeast seaboard stretched out like a shimmering string of jewels, twinkling in the twilight of another beautiful sunset. Camy could barely keep her eyes opened but she would not allow herself to fall asleep either. It helped when she got up and stretched her legs during a slow and deliberate walk to the restroom in the rear of the plane.

The Captain has turned on the seatbelt sign, the flight Attendant announced.

Walking a few rows back, Camy observed a woman tell a little girl with red ringlets, who was playing with a doll and either she did not hear or completely ignored the warning to, Put on your seatbelt, Sarah!

On the return trip to her seat, grabbing one seatback after another, the athletic ballerina felt the plane tilt sharply to the left then the floor shook violently, sending vibrations up her legs through her arms and into Camy’s chest, before she froze. Every man, woman and child in the cabin had panic etched on their faces.

Intuitively, Camy knew this was a collective expression of primal fear, signalling something very bad was about to happen. What followed was a blur, unfolding very quickly, in no particular order or sequence and in a few moments, the tranquilly of their flight had disintegrated into complete chaos.

Keep your seats! the Attendant shouted.

Camy’s feet lost contact with the floor; the plane’s sudden plunge sent all two-hundred and four passengers into a breath-taking vertical drop. The precipitous loss of altitude disoriented her. Clothes, newspapers, food, computers swirled in the air all around her. Amid screams and shouts, the flight Attendant reached out to grab little Sarah’s arm and kept her from flying upward.

Everything not bolted down, strapped in or secured hit the ceiling and that included Camy Reynolds, the five foot six-inch caramel skinned brunette ballet dancer; a woman whom many have described as beautiful, but who flew into the top of the plane like a rag doll in the cloud of debris.

Stay calm! The Attendant shouted.

Cabin lights flickered a few terrifying seconds. Poised overhead like a light fixture, the ballerina saw Sarah clinging to her doll. Don’t let go of her, Camy said, looking down from the ceiling.

The plane’s metal twisted and groaned; its engines whined like feral cats. She felt the aircraft right itself just before she dropped from the ceiling landing on both feet. Wobbling like a baby doe, Camy continued toward her seat but lost balance and she fell sideways into the lap of a twenty-something man with a square jaw, and a face evenly covered by a five o’clock shadow.

Blinking in disbelief, the man said, This didn’t just happen did it?

Oh, yes! It did! Camy replied, noticing his piercing blue eyes for the first time.

With Camy sitting on his lap and the plane still undulating, he was bolt upright, as rigid as a board. For reasons she will never be able to explain to herself, she wrapped her arms around him. Was this a maternal instinct or a need for protection in the midst of a crisis? After several self-conscious moments in this position, Camy became uncomfortable draping herself over a man she did not know and pulled away.

Wow! I thought that was… he blurted out.

The end, I did too, Wow! Camy finished.

Awkward and a bit stiff, Camy untangled herself from him slowly and stood in the isle. Passengers came to help her but she waved them off and pointed to her seat a few rows forward as other passengers brushed pass them, severing their tenuous connection. As Camy walked away, her head began to ache. She reached up and felt a walnut sized lump on her scalp under her thick and unruly hair.

Great like I needed one of these too, Camy sighed.

This is the Captain. Our aircraft just hit a down draft, folks. It happens every once and awhile and I apologize for any inconvenience. Everything is all right up here on the flight deck so to be safe stay buckled up. The cabin crew is there to offer any help you might need before we land at JFK.

Camys’ back ached as though a jackhammer had drilled through her. The cabin was a picture of messy disarray. However, the passengers gradually gathered what belongings they could find and took their seats.

After an uneventful landing at JFK, their plane taxied to the terminal where teams of medical, safety and TSA personnel stood ready for a disaster when the plane’s doors opened. There were a few injuries but none was serious. A woman asked Camy if she needed help as they went straight to the carousel and found it already spinning. Ignoring the pain, she spotted her sticker covered, weather-beaten, travel worn bag and, while excusing herself, poked through the crowd, grabbed it, and headed for the nearest terminal exit.

An exhausted ballerina walked outside as the man hopped into a long black limousine and sped away towards Manhattan. She was crestfallen. She thought they might, at least, shake hands, say goodbye, say thanks or your welcome, or maybe exchange names and numbers.

However, this felt as though nothing ever happened; no evidence, no proof, only memories left behind like fragments of a dream, a dream filled with shiny gossamer objects floating in the air around her, filled with magical twists and turns and the stranger who saved her after a terrifying fall. It was just a memory that felt incomplete so she did what she had to do. She let it go.

Squaring her shoulders, Camy walked to the taxi stand and joined a dozen other passengers waiting for a ride into the City.

CHAPTER II

Monday

The first class on the first day of the first semester of a new year has always been exciting to Camy, especially this year when so much was at stake. She was a senior at Meredith University and graduation was within sight. Coming from a prestigious ballet summer camp in Toronto the night before, Camy knew she was flying into the headwinds of an intense competition for a role in the Sleeping Beauty Ballet, produced by the University’s Dramatic Arts Department.

When she felt good, Camy had the habit of walking on the balls of her feet. With her head held high, shoulders straight, Camy did not walk as much as she glided through the doors of the modern stone and glass building known as the Dramatic Arts Center. She radiated creativity and warmth. She always carried herself confidently in part because she understood one thing: many people would see her as a symbol before they knew her as a person.

Being the only African American dancer in the Corps made her an object of curiosity, someone other people had to figure out. She learned to shut out those speculations just as she had the question at back of everyone’s mind, will she be the one?

Today was not about practice. Today was about auditions. These try-outs were the challenge every dancer in the Corps looked forward to all summer. Dancers prepared in their own ways, in different parts of the world, with different teachers and coaches, in schools and camps, and arrived at these try-outs, each prepared to win a role.

Camy loved to arrive at the barre first where she shut out the world and focused. She focused on her positions, her tempo, her breathing, her rhythm, as she timed the movements to the tempo she had set for herself. She began with first position, second position, third position, fourth position and fifth. Then she repeated with first position, second position, third position, fourth position, and fifth…

Hi! I can see it’s a big hair day! Liz said with emphasis on big as she breezed by, proving to Camy once again that she was the master of the obvious. Elizabeth was her Chinese sister from another mother who knew what humidity did to African American hair. Liz could not resist the temptation to use the big hair comment to break Camy’s concentration and make her laugh because it always worked.

Camy stopped and looked in the mirror as though seeing herself for the first time. She had a muscular body with well-developed calf muscles, long arms and the kind of expressive face that turned heads. On top of all of these noticeable charms was the African American hair that literally exploded on humid days and seemed to have a life of its own.

Liz was a little butterfly with pale skin and straight black shoulder length hair that framed a delicate and pretty face. Her eyes were almond shaped and deep brown. She always found a place near Camy on the barre to begin warming up. Having gone to classical dance schools all her life, Liz’s movements were quick and precise. Camy loved Liz. She thought of Liz as the soul sister she never had. Liz did not slouch into Meredith University from Queens either; she was a trailblazer and had the resume to prove it.

Liz grew up half a world away in Beijing and shared the same dreams of coming to perform in New York City as Camy. It was funny how the same dreams existed in distant corners of the world only to meet in the same place at the same time thousands of miles away. Camy felt like they were living the same dream in separate bodies.

Hello there, Princess! Camy teased her.

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The director called Camy for auditions. She entered the practice room and stood in line with the other dancers who stretched to relieve tension and stay limber. Inside the room, no one wore the sweat of competition on their forehead because it was a sheltered space where they all loved to practice and perform. They shared lots of smiles and hugs in this room and the anxiety, if there were any, stayed outside the door.

Each student received an instruction sheet describing which movements to perform in front of the each of the six judges. Camy memorized the page and began visualizing each one exactly as she had done hundreds of times before. However, this was no ordinary try-out; this try-out mattered more than all the others in her life combined. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. The worst thing she could do now was psyche herself out. More than wanting to win a position in Sleeping Beauty, Camy did not want to lose because she hated losing.

Liz entered the room and they immediately made eye contact, shyly smiling at each other, sharing mutual confidence in their skills; they both knew they were destined for these roles. The movements were not simple; they were basic but demanding.

Camy performed repetitions of Grand Plie, Battements Degages, Battements Frappes and the Glissades, six times, repeating them one time for each judge. Camy has a sense of growing satisfaction as she progressed through the format, mainly because she had not made any mistakes. That was a good sign.

She ended the Glissades with a beautiful and balanced finish. Then she courtsied and moved to the next station. The round of auditions continued until each dancer had completed all six stations. At the end of the auditions, everyone leaned, sat or stretched out on something to assess what had just happened.

Then Director Ivan (Y-vonne) Eonisovich the tall handsome Russian, a former star with the Bolshoi, a classicist and the soul of the Corps, assembled them to announce the final cast selections.

Tension raised the temperature in