"Didn't you see her painting?" I ask. "Wasn't it absolutely atrocious?"

"The judges like that boring classic shit," Fitz says, sitting at the edge of my—or, more accurately, our—bed. We share a bunk bed with him on top and me on the bottom—the only way we had enough space to fit our belongings into one room.

"Yet you're the one that spends time with her," I say. "Traitor."

He rubs his nose, nudging his silver septum ring off-center. "We just go to the same skate park. And she sells me weed sometimes. That's it. I thought you wanted me to spy on her for you."

I sit up. "She sells you what?"

The fact she exists already offends me. The fact the judges picked her painting over mine already offends me. Everything about her is vile—how she shamelessly skates down the halls at school, scabs up and down her arms, backwards baseball cap on her head. Skinny legs and no waist, and she looks like a raccoon with that black eyeliner always smearing down her face, her infuriating little smile revealing the gap between her front teeth. And now for her to have Fitz's cash in her pockets on top of the money she's already swimming in? I can't accept it.

"Uh, my friend ran out last month, and she had extra," Fitz mutters.

"Because her father literally works for a drug cartel," I say. "Of course she has extra. She probably has a truckload coming in each week."

"...I don't know anything 'bout that."

We both should given that William, our journalist uncle on our mother's side, has lived here for a decade. The world of cartel violence fascinates him, and and occasionally he'll go to the US-Mexico border to investigate. One would expect him to draw a lot of attention being a tall Haitian guy, but according to him, there's a lot of Haitians in Tijuana. How convenient. 

"I don't want you near her," I tell Fitz. "Especially not to buy anything. I don't need that family taking more any money from us."

"Aight, I get it," Fitz says, standing up.

"And how many times do I have to tell you to stop skating? One, it's dangerous. Are you forgetting there's no such thing as universal healthcare here? Two, smoking the way you do is going to stunt your brain development. And don't come at me with the "it's legal" argument. You're not twenty-one. Which means that three, if you get caught with it, you'll be in so much trouble. Especially with that tattoo on your face."

His neutral expression gives way to a frown. My brother has the word CATATONIA inked on his temple, which he got at fifteen—yes, fifteen—after our mom passed. I suppose it's a rapper rite of passage, but it's been three years, and he hasn't even hit 1,000 monthly listeners yet. The tattoo did, however, make him a hot topic among the girls at school here, which disturbed him so much he actually started borrowing my makeup to cover it up.

"Damn," he sighs. "I thought we were talking about Eris, not me."

"Don't say her name out loud," I snap, then take a moment to compose myself. "Anyway. When are you getting a job?"

I'm expecting him to go off about capitalism, wage slavery, the futility of it all—his usual excuses. But he just shrugs, which is Fitz code for not anytime soon.

"So you think it's fair that I'm the one putting my blood, sweat, and tears into selling my art so we can pay the bills," I begin, "while you get to sit around smoking weed with the enemy?"

"No one's telling you to pay the bills, Persephone."

"Well, someone has to. What's the other option? Credit card debt?"

"I'm just tryna keep up with these AP classes you told me I should take," he says before heading to the door. "We'll figure it out. Just chill."

Of course. Fitzgerald Baines, the self-proclaimed beacon of "chill". It has to be someone's job to ruin it. And unfortunately, like with most things in this household, that responsibility falls on me.

▴ ▴ ▴

Everyone from teachers to judges to even Fitz have parroted the words: Art isn't about competition. But I beg to differ. There's limited demand and an increasing amount of supply. And what no one admits? This is a strategic, relentless fight to the top.

I won't pretend to be one of those artists who create for the sake of it. I create to win.

Yet it's late February, I turned eighteen two weeks ago, and I'm still on a losing streak.

Canvases fill my side of the room, serving as the architecture of a fantastical dreamscape. Dimensional wanderings. Mathematical surrealism. Precision in every splash of paint.

Books, an electric piano, and recording equipment fill Fitz's side.

If he took his work as seriously as I do, he could be making a living by now. And although I don't care much for rap, I enjoy his songs and how he weaves lyrics like poetry. How when I'm painting on my side and he's recording piano melodies on his, the music links us together more than words can, helping me forget how much I wish I didn't have to share a room with my twin brother.

But I don't complain. William and Dad share a room, too. And although we're in one of the most affluent suburbs, William's two-bedroom house is still cramped for space. The Baines family moving in was meant to be temporary, after all. But here we are.

Someone knocks on the door.

It's my father, finally coming out of hibernation. He's unshaven, his locs tied in a loose bun, but I don't have the energy to look at him directly. To put on a neutral expression like Fitz.

He sits at the edge of the bed, crouching so his head doesn't hit the top bunk.

"She won again?" he asks softly, glancing at my pillowcase—stained with tears and makeup.

I wonder if he's still a proponent of the motto: you have to work twice as hard for half of what they have. I worked ten times as hard for second place. The math simply doesn't add up. And isn't Persephone supposed to be the Greek goddess of spring? For a spring-themed contest, this is more embarrassing than anything.

"Second place again," I say, then reach for the envelope with my $500 prize money and hand it to him. "Here. Groceries covered."

Dad stares at the envelope with a sadness so profound I feel nauseous.

"One of the judges asked about you," I say. "They're wondering when you'll end your hiatus."

He surprises me with a small smile. "I've been working on something new. I felt... inspired by that one." His eyes land on a painting I finished last month—slightly based on Edvard Munch's The Scream except I actually have talent.

A geometric girl stands alone in a consuming desert. Jagged shapes are the visual representation of her scream. The night sky is plain, as if she shines so viscerally in her yellows and pinks she can dim the light of the stars. Even in her despair. Even in her obscurity as her form disintegrates into triangles like broken glass.

"I like what you did," Dad says. "The contrast between the defined shapes and the blurry sand dunes. I thought I'd give it a try."

I stare at him, almost tempted to ask, what's the occasion? But before it slips out, he leaves the room and comes back with a canvas.

The figure in his painting bears a likeness to mine, but it's missing the technical detail. The landscape has more commotion—more figures, greenery, animals, sunlight, life.

"It's practice," he says. "Nothing I'd sell. But I could see yours in a gallery." Another smile. "You've surpassed me."

I've known that for years. All that's missing is the recognition. The proof that I'm more than a failed child prodigy. My work in permanent museum displays to outlive me.

"I don't give up," I say. It's passive aggressive, but I'm not sure how to stop myself. How to stop pushing him further and further away.

Mom would've had all the bills piling up on the counter covered. Even jobless, she would've come up with a plan and executed. She wasn't in the military for nothing, flying jets high above the ground. She took Fitz and I skydiving in Germany years ago—the age requirement in some places there is only thirteen. I refused to jump while Fitz has been addicted ever since.

"I'm sorry," Dad says after a long, silent moment, his smile dimmed. Sorry for his mistakes. The legal fees. The debt. Sorry for his depression. His grief. His failures. I know the speech by now. Last year, I watched him break down four times.

I don't know if I can handle a fifth.

▴▴▴

Fitz and I arrive at school on his motorcycle—which, although it's objectively ten times as dangerous, doesn't make me panic nearly as much as being in a car. Something about the controlled adrenaline grounds me. Reminds me of how transient my time is on this earth.

We zoom into the parking lot, the loud growl of the engine drawing everyone's eyes to us. I take off my helmet and relish in this brief spotlight—the only time people seem to have the courage to look at me directly. Fitz takes off his helmet and glances around the courtyard, either oblivious or already accustomed to the stares.

When he sees his friends—a group of skaters doing tricks along the curb—he walks toward them, leaving me alone.

I'm not sure how he does it. Maintain friendships, I mean. He's a lone wolf in his own regard, but he gets along with literally everyone, though he rarely lets people in too close. And me? I don't know how to give much more than stiff small talk or pre-practiced lines.

Even that exhausts me. Putting on a humble smile and pretending I don't seek more fame than anyone around me thinks possible—that exhausts me. What's the use in trying to mold myself to the majority, especially here?

Believe it or not, I used to have friends. A handful over the years, all fading as Mom whisked us from place to place. Ottawa. Winnipeg. Montreal. We lived in Germany for two years in one of Canada's overseas bases. And now here I am. In the same city, same school district, same dimension as Eris Lugo. 

She's leaning against her car, smiling more than usual. A sleazy guy leans his elbow on her shoulder, but she pushes him away and says something—probably a rude remark—and everyone around her laughs, cheering her on.

Doesn't she realize how pathetic she looks? Playing queen bee to people who only bow down because she's rich? Because of the parties, the drugs, the whatever else she does. How she finds time for painting is beyond me.

Later, during lunch time, I'm heading to my usual place as a loner in the back of the library when... I see her. At the table I always sit at. Alone, but she gives off the same obnoxious energy as always. Taking up space. Demanding attention. She doesn't need to say a thing for me to hear her taunts.

She has her dirty Vans on top of the table. Her gold chains dangle off her neck. And the book she's pretending to read? Art of War by Sun Tzu.

"Hey, Ef. Ever read this one?"

"When I was six," I say, keeping my tone flat. "Now leave. I need to study."

"Remember that saying? What was it, keep your friends close and your enemies closer?"

Forcing a semblance of neutrality around her exhausts me like nothing else, especially with that smug look on her raccoon face. "What do you want now?"

She closes the book and shoves it aside, smirking. "I have a new competition for us to try."

"How exciting," I say as I turn to leave.

"C'mon, I made something for you. I tried telling Fitz to give it to you, but for some reason, he's not talking to me. So... here."

I should walk away. I should find somewhere else to study for my Spanish quiz. I spent the weekend developing a new daily routine that'll require me to put in more hours toward my goals than ever before. And she is not part of it. There is no tolerating Eris Lugo's bullshit on my to-do list this week.

But why should I be the one to leave when it's my table being occupied?

I turn around. She waves an envelope in her hand, and my eyes narrow. "If I take it, will you leave?"

"Sí, pendeja. I have shit to do too."

I step closer, snatch it from her, and then back away toward the bookshelves.

And on the back of the envelope, I see me.

Me in graphite pencil. Me in messy, haphazard lines that somehow come together to convey every feature. My full brows. My angular jaw. My triangle earrings. Even my box braids, which I've only had since last Thursday. And I'm smiling—the only thing that's truly unlike me.

Everything about it fills me with a sick vertigo. In the five years I've had the misfortune of knowing her, she's never crossed this line. She's never mocked me using my own image. And who gave her the right? Capturing my essence in something she probably scribbled in ten minutes instead of paying attention in class... it feels illegal. Violating. Punishable by death.

And all I manage to say is: "What the fuck is this?"

She doesn't react—only watches me. "Open it. There's more."

I never thought a drawing could activate my fight-or-flight response, but my heart hammers against my ribcage. I open the envelope violently, tearing my sketched face in two.

There's a sheet of notebook paper, a five dollar bill, and a flyer for a contest this Wednesday at some art supply store.

On the paper, I recognize her crooked, third grade boy handwriting immediately.

Dear Ef,

You seemed really upset when you got out of the art fair the other day. I thought that you'd be too used to losing by now to care that much, but I guess I was wrong. You better not be busy this Wednesday.

Also, the admission fee is $5. I know about your, well, financial situation, so I'll take care of it this time. You're welcome. Take it as my compensation gift for COMPLETELY FUCKING WRECKING YOU in the competition yet again.

XOXOXO,

Eris

Of course she has to rub it in my face. This I expected—not the drawing. I've become too good at resisting her provocations. Too good at pretending I don't care. Now she's giving me whiplash, switching up her tactics to throw me off my guard.

My blood pressure is at an all-time high, my muscles tense, but I cannot give her the satisfaction of reacting.

"You ruined my drawing," she drawls with exaggerated sadness, staring at the envelope I left torn on the table. It takes every shred of willpower not to smack her right there. The fact she knows every detail of my appearance to the point she can replicate it with cheap pencil disgusts me so deeply I never want to face her again. Has she been stalking me, or are the rumors of her photographic memory true?

"I don't need your fan art," I spit.

"What about the contest? You ready for round two?"

"I really don't have the time or patience to spend another second in your vicinity, Eris."

"Or you're just scared to lose."

My wrath needs somewhere to go. I'm sure it's seeping from my pores, my ears, filling the silent air of the library.

I take the five dollar bill and rip it in half. "I don't need your dirty money, either."

Eris just stares, her smile widening. She's waiting for me to snap. To break my carefully-cultivated self-control. To strangle her over the library table. Oh, I'm sure she'd love that. She'd love to get us sent to principal Montoya's office. She's used to it by now. She's only here in the first place because she got expelled from private school in ninth grade. Vandalism, fighting with other girls, smoking marijuana in the bathroom—the list goes on. But here, with her daddy's money as insurance, nothing happens.

Here, the bitch runs free. And she wants to drag me into her mess, knowing full well I have a lot more working against me than she does. 

She takes her feet off the table and gets up. "Okay then. Have fun with that stick up your ass. See you Wednesday."

She says it so casually, though I feel her smugness multiplying tenfold. It's as hard for her to fake a neutral tone as it is for me. She wants to come off like I've bored her, like she hasn't been waiting all day to talk to me, like pissing me off isn't the highlight of her pathetic week.

And with that, she walks away. I didn't come closer than a metre to her, but that drawing makes me feel as if I did. I need fresh air. I need a session of yoga and meditation to bring me back to centre.

Five minutes. She only took five minutes out of my day. Fine. I'll live with it. No more.

She has no discipline in her art. No long-term vision. No strategy other than her little mind games. Whereas I'll make history. And one day, Eris Lugo will be nothing but a footnote in my biography.

▴ ▴ ▴

A/N: I've calculated—this chapter took me about 11 hours to write!! So if you liked it, do leave a vote and let me know which part was your favorite 🧡 What do you think of the characters so far?

I'm having a splendid time writing in Persephone's POV. I've been daydreaming, outlining, and planning the re-write of this story for about a year. Now all these new ideas are coming together, and I'm so excited to share it with you 😊