On Eagles’ Wings

Copyright © 2022 Katelyn Layne.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by

any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying,

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without the written permission of the author except in the case of

brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents,

organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products

of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

WestBow Press

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models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Scripture quotations taken from The Holy Bible, New International

Version® NIV® Copyright © 1973 1978 1984 2011 by Biblica, Inc.

TM. Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.

ISBN: 978-1-6642-5249-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6642-5250-9 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-6642-5248-6 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2021924925

WestBow Press rev. date: 04/12/2022

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

1

CHAPTER

I ran up the driveway with the letter clutched in my hand, oblivious to the cold wind that blew snow into my face with every step. This was it: the moment I had dreamed about, prayed about, and worried about for the last two months. I kicked my shoes off at the front door and ran partway up the stairs, turning around when my mom called after me, Don’t forget to shut the front door! I closed the front door and hurried back up the stairs and down the hall to my bedroom. I sat down at my desk. My hands shook as I opened the letter and read the long-anticipated words.

Miss Mia Jensen,

We are pleased to inform you that the story you submitted to our annual short story competition has won first prize. As promised, you will be granted a $200 grand prize, as well as a $1,500 scholarship and publication in next month’s edition of our magazine. Your story has great potential, and you are a wonderful author. Keep writing, and I have no doubt I will be reading your books someday. Thank you once again for choosing to submit such a wonderful piece of work.

Sincerely,

Mariah Jordan

I couldn’t believe my eyes. Had I really just won? I couldn’t believe it. And she, the head judge and editor of the best-selling teen magazine in the country, thought I had the potential to become a great author! I reread the letter just to make sure I wasn’t imagining things. When I had submitted the story two months ago, I had only done it because one of my teachers suggested it, and I had thought it could be a good experience. I hadn’t expected to win. I had been going up against college-age kids. Yet here it was, proof that someday I could be an author like I had always dreamed.

I ran out of my room and took the stairs two at a time. I slid into the kitchen, where my mom was cooking dinner. I won! I won! I shouted ecstatically.

My mom looked up. What?

I won the writing contest I entered! I handed her the letter and watched as her eyes scanned the page. When she looked up, there were tears in her eyes. My mom tended to get emotional easily.

Oh, honey, I’m so proud of you. Great job. She gave me a hug and turned back to her cooking.

What are you making for dinner? I asked. It smells amazing.

Chicken parmesan, she said. And I just might have to make some brownies for our little author.

Our little author? Seriously? But I was too excited to give it much thought. I gave my mom another hug and skipped out of the room to find my twin sister, Aubrey.

Aubrey was at least as excited as my mom had been, if not more. My sister’s a published author! she squealed. She turned on our favorite song and turned the volume up all the way. We danced in circles and sang at the top of our voices for a while before collapsing, exhausted, onto our beds.

Our mom called from downstairs, What are you girls doing up there? It sounds like you’re going to make the floor fall through.

Aubrey and I collapsed into more giggles, and I felt full to bursting with happiness.

Dinner that night tasted amazing. As we devoured the delicious dinner my mom had made, my dad raised his water glass. To Mia. Great job! I look forward to reading your books in the future!

Cheers! everyone cried.

My ten-month-old brother, Johnny, never one to miss out on the fun, banged his spoon against his high chair. His four baby teeth showed as he grinned widely. We all laughed, and Johnny banged his spoon against the high chair again. His blue eyes sparkled at the attention. As I looked around at my loving and supportive family and thought about how much I had worked to get there, I felt an immense sense of gratitude for the life God had given me. I wished the night would never end.

It did eventually end but not before I had eaten my fill of brownies and played a rousing game of Uno with my family. Before I went to bed that night, I read the letter again. It still felt like a dream, and I was worried that when I woke up the next morning, it would be gone. I attached the letter to my manuscript with a paper clip and tucked it safely inside my desk. I fell asleep with the memory of that beautiful day fresh in my mind.

My alarm went off at 6:15 the next morning. I quickly got out of bed and headed to the closet. As I looked for the perfect outfit to wear, I heard my sisters stirring behind me. Soon they would be crowding the closet, so I tried to be quick. After careful consideration, I chose a light purple shirt and blue jeans. I dressed quickly and headed to the bathroom, where I styled my hair in a french braid. I studied my reflection in the mirror. My golden-brown braid hung not quite halfway down my back, and it looked nice against the purple color of my shirt. Satisfied, I turned and headed downstairs for breakfast.

I sat down at the table with the rest of my family and dished myself breakfast: yogurt, granola, and berries. It tasted delicious, and I enjoyed the short time I was able to spend with my family before we all piled into the car to head to school.

The memory of my win in the writing contest was fresh in my mind, and I walked with an extra spring in my step as I headed to my first class: social studies.

Social studies went well that morning. Our teacher, Ms. Price, gave us a new assignment. We were going to work with a partner to create a presentation about life in third-world countries. My partner was Courtney Abbot. We weren’t the best of friends, but we got along pretty well, and I liked her personality. We spent the rest of the class brainstorming ideas for our presentation, and by the end of class, we had a pretty good idea of what we were going to do. I was proud of our progress.

My next class, health, was fun as well. We made muffins, and they tasted awesome. While we baked, my health teacher, Miss Heath, made us all laugh with her funny impersonations of famous people. My day was going great.

I showed up for my next class, art, with high expectations. We were working on painting landscapes, and it had been a lot of fun so far. When I stepped into the art room, I smiled. The room smelled of paint and oil pastel. The canvases were set up in neat rows, and on the back table were rows and rows of acrylic paint in every color of the rainbow. It was every artist’s dream.

I set to work immediately. I grabbed the blue paint I needed to paint my waterfall and headed to my spot. Tessa, a popular girl and the leader of the mean-girl group, was at the canvas next to me. We’d been in the same class in first, second, and fourth grade, and her teasing had always been directed at me: Why are you so short? Do you get your clothes from a thrift store? Oh, are you cwying? Do you need Mama? The last taunt had been directed at me when she tripped me on the playground in second grade and I twisted my ankle. It had hurt! Even now, in middle school, she teased me mercilessly, and I could never understand why. What had I ever done to her to be the object of her constant bullying? Any other day, I would have been disappointed to have to be next to her, but that day, even Tessa couldn’t dampen my spirits.

I hummed quietly while I worked, enjoying the perfect day.

Can you stop? Tessa asked. That’s really annoying.

I stopped, satisfying myself with watching the paint as it lay down smoothly on the canvas.

My friend Evan was on the other side of me. What brush did you use? she asked.

I wouldn’t use that one if I were you, I said, pointing at the brush she held in her hand. It’s hard to paint with, and if you’re not really careful, it makes it look bad.

Is that what you used on your clothes? Tessa asked, overhearing. She must have seen the hurt on my face, because she added, "It’s all right. You’re so ugly that your clothes look just right on