I give him a curt nod and then walk back to the back of the room, shutting my curtain tight behind me before I kneel on the ground. I’m not prepared to beat him. There’s no way in hell that my painting is going to be better than his, and I’m sure that he knows it.
Even though I don’t have any clue what he’s painting or how it’s going to look, he said it himself. He’s a god at Trinity Prep, handpicked by Mr. Stanfield himself.
I’m fucked.
***
“No offence, Abby, but you look like shit.” Madeline hands me a coffee, black, with plenty of sugar, and I take a grateful sip. “How late did you stay up last night?”
My head started to buzz with the caffeine right away and I closed my eyes, enjoying the feeling. “I think I was up until 2? Maybe 3, I don’t remember, really. I just remember getting back to my room and passing out with my shoes on.”
She laughed and took a bite of her omelet. “I’ve been there, Abs. We all have, and let me tell you, it doesn’t get much better. You have to not only balance your school but also your art, and that’s really damn hard.”
“Yeah, I’m beginning to see that.” It wasn’t like this at my old high school, probably because the school wasn’t set up as an art school. We all studied hard and played harder. Hell, I’d even been on the track team, but Trinity Prep doesn’t have any sports teams. I had thought that that was strange, but it was easy to see that the students just didn’t have time to practice or compete.
“So, is today the day?” She glanced over at Quinn where he sat flanked by his two friends. She’d told me earlier that they were Carter and Trae, and they were both as focused and mean as they were hot. Since the day in the cafeteria when they came over with Quinn to talk to me, I’d done a great job avoiding them.
But that avoidance was over now. They, along with everyone else at Trinity Prep who wanted to know if I could stand up to Quinn, were all going to meet us in the art department as soon as classes were over.
Suddenly, the coffee I’d been happily sipping feels curdled in my stomach. “Ugh, yeah, today’s the day,” I tell Madeline, pushing my mug to her. “I think that if I eat or drink anything else today that I’m going to be sick.”
She looked at me with compassion. “It’s gonna be a long day then.” Before I can stop her, she grabs the croissant off of my plate and takes a big bite. “But don’t you worry, Abs, I’m there for you however you need me.”
I can’t stop laughing as we walk out of the cafeteria. That’s good, because the rest of the day is going to suck.
I feel like I’m in a haze all day long, but before I know it, I’m in art class, listening to Mr. Stanfield talk about the challenges of adding enough movement to a still life. Still life is not my forte, so I’m desperately taking notes. Quinn, on the other hand, has his legs stretched out under our desk and looks completely relaxed.
“You suck at still lives, Abigail?” His voice is a whispered hiss and I do my best to ignore him. “I just hope that you’re not a cold fish in bed. Can you promise me that you’ll put a little effort into it when you give it up to me?”
“Shut the fuck up, Quinn. My painting is worlds better than yours.” Even as I talk to him, I’m writing as fast as I can, trying to keep up with the lecture.
“We’ll see.”
Before too long, Mr. Stanfield lets us free and I scurry back to my center as fast as I can go. I need to put the finishing touches on my work and just hope that it’s good enough. Even though I was up all night working on it, I’m sure that there are a few things that I can do to make it better.
Yanking open the curtain, I breathe a sigh of relief when I see that my painting is still there. It’s turned so that I can’t see it, but that’s to keep other students from peeking in and taking a look at it without me knowing that they’re checking on me. But it’s there, and that’s what matters. Part of me was terrified that something would have happened to it overnight, but even Quinn wouldn’t stoop that low, right?
Right.
That’s what I tell myself as I prepare my paints and get out my turpentine. As the strong scent hits my nose, I take a deep breath, enjoying the slightly heady feeling it gives me. There’s honestly nothing like knowing that I have a few hours to get lost in my work.
The rest of the class is working on their projects for the internship, and I know that I shouldn’t be wasting a whole week working on this piece, but I have to show Quinn that I’m a better artist than him.
Actually, I think that I have to prove to myself that I’m just as good – or better – than he is.
Once my paints are ready, I grab a brush and walk up to my painting. Frowning, I look closer. The colors I put on last night look muddy and aren’t nearly as vibrant as I remember them to be. Carefully I reach out and touch the painting, and when I pull my finger back, there’s a wash of black paint on it.
“What the hell?” My voice is quiet, and I reach back out, wiping off a bit more of the black wash. Someone took black paint, thinned it out, and then painted all over my canvas. The closer
