Page 9 of Rivals
I know why she sabotaged my painting. The only obvious answer is that I’m better than her. She knew it, and I know it, too. I’m lucky she didn’t actually call my bluff, considering I have no idea if there are cameras in the places I said.
I glance down at her as she fidgets. Her hands are fisting and relaxing, she’s on edge. Good. Because I have now made it my mission to destroy her. We have always been in competition since we started our freshman year. She’s good, I’ll give her that. But I’m better. If she thinks she gets to ride my coattails, she’s got another thing coming.
The judges walk in a few seconds later. Revna stops fidgeting and I stand up straighter. In this case, we have to look like a team. The judges go from student to student, stopping to speak to them. One girl even broke down in tears and ran out of the room. Maybe this will end before it even begins.
They finally come to a stop in front of Revna and me. There is an older woman in the collection of them, and she eyes us warily. Her scrutiny makes my skin crawl, like she was figuring us out even though we haven’t said a word.
“I have to say, this diptych is something I haven’t seen before. Sure, it’s modern, but somehow, you created a dream-like atmosphere. We can assume what the shapes are, but it could be open for interpretation. Meaning, the composition may or may not be intended to be a tree, but it looks like one to me. It is reminiscent of the impressionist style but with an abstract, romantic high renaissance to it. We are impressed by this team and your work. We will see you in the next round,” she says.
My heart thumps so hard against my chest that I feel like I am about to have a heart attack. I quickly look at Revna, and she is as still as a statue. I didn’t think we would actually work together. The judges walk away, and Revna releases a breath. I turn around and look for what the judge was talking about. Unable to see what she was referring to, I take a few steps back and look at both pieces together for the first time.
A weird, sizzling feeling flows through me, and my brain jumps. It’s like the high of a drug without a single pill. Then I see it, the tree or maybe a person. It could be both, depending on your angle. It’s like the world is lying on its side, and the splotch of red on Revna’s is either the sunset or blood. Yet we have the same shade of purple through both of ours, like it’s parts of the sky. I put that there, it wasn’t her. And hers looks intentional, too. Like she added flowers, but they are more like little dots. Regardless, it’s unnerving because it’s entirely unintentional.
Right?
The door to the presentation gallery closes and I realize Revna slipped out. Well then, little bird, I guess we have to figure this out. I could strangle her for putting us in this position, but it’s hard to remember that when I feel inspired to work. Is it the paintings or Revna? I refuse to tell myself the honest answer that floats through my brain. I let it go. It can go drown in the lake of my mind. I still have to make her pay for this and somehow make it to the MoMA.
Running after Revna, I push the door open and stand in the shared workspace. She’s in her area, grabbing her bag, in her own world, with a scowl on her face. Her skin looks pale, too pale. Her dark black hair brings the wan color out of her, making all her features stark and severe.
“Revna,” I say, my voice more commanding than I intended.
Her head snaps up, and the scowl gets directed at me. Her eyes pierce me like an icicle through the heart. And like clockwork, my heart thuds, and blood rushes in my ears. I take a step towards her, bursting her bubble of personal space.
She crosses her arms and waits as if I am inconveniencing her. Which is rich, considering our circumstances.
“What? I have to be at work in twenty minutes, and the walk is twenty minutes,” she huffs.
Ignoring her attitude, I decide to approach her like a lamb for slaughter. I’ll make her think I care enough about her to work with her. “We need to talk about the next project.”
“Yeah, well, it can wait,” she says, moving to leave.
I grab her arm before she can get past me. “You did this, Revna, and I’ll be damned if I let you drag me down with you. I expect you here tomorrow morning at eight so we can figure this out.”
She laughs. “If you think I will be available to your every beck and call, you are seriously delusional.” She yanks her arm out of my grip. “And if you touch me again, I will slice it off.”
A smirk builds on my lips. “You sure you want to do that, little bird? You might like what you see.”
She makes a disgusted sound. “You are so full of it, you don’t know when a woman is clearly not attracted to you. Well, let me make this very clear. I don’t want your hands anywhere near me.” She stomps towards the door. “And stop calling me that,” she yells over her shoulder. Then she’s gone.
Ok then, maybe I need to give her a good reason to be here tomorrow morning. Strolling over to her workspace, I see her brushes and various paints. We’re artists. We don’t have money, it comes with the territory. Sure, I may have come from money, but I also know what it’s like to go to bed with an empty stomach. Any supply like these paints is precious, some of these small tubes cost twenty or thirty dollars apiece.
I know from experience that when you are in it when you are so deep into that creative lake, practically drowning in it, you will go hungry to get it out. You will go to the deepest, darkest cave to find it. Sacrifice, including your own well-being… your sanity. If these paints were to disappear, well, that might tip someone over the edge. And maybe that’s what my little bird needs.
I swipe the tubes off the small tabletop and get my things with a plan to get her here sooner rather than later. She probably won’t be awake when she gets what I am going to send, but I will. Insomnia is a bitch. So I’ll be waiting because I am sure she will be here with bells on when she figures it out.
Chapter 10
Lachlan
Permyusual,Igot probably two hours of sleep. I don’t remember the last time I slept eight hours, much less if it’s possible anymore. I’m commonly one of the first ones here. I swipe my card to be let into the building. The security guard nods as I walk past him down the hall. The lights are off, and the sun is just starting to rise as the pinkish hues filter through the windows. Living in the city, you don’t often see the sun rising or its setting. There is a reason NYC is called the concrete jungle. It’s cutthroat, but it has nothing to do with animals. Well, at least the ones that have more than two legs. This place is equally as treacherous, only you’re up against the top of the food chain, mankind. And if you don’t know how to survive, you will die.
I was raised with a silver spoon in my mouth. Those who know my family and didn’t come from wealth may be jealous. I don’t know why because what most people don’t understand is that with money comes expectations. Those expectations vary, but deviating from them will rip the silver spoon right out of your mouth, melt it down, and throw it away in front of you, just out of spite. Becoming an artist, in my parents’ eyes, is one of those deviations. My freshman year, I decided on art. My father’s response was, “Ok, fine, but I’m done.” We haven’t spoken in years. See? That silver spoon comes with small print.
Flipping on the light to the community room, I head over to one of our large trash cans and check the time. It’s a little past six in the morning, most students check their email when they get up. I know I do. Now it’s a waiting game.
I pull her paints out of my bag and squeeze each tube into the trash. It hurts me to see, but how else will she pay attention? Plus, this is the tip of the iceberg. I told her she would pay, and I wasn’t just being metaphorical. I’m sure this is a couple of weeks worth of tips going into the trash. She probably thinks I don’t know she waitresses at that hole-in-the-wall diner. I’ve seen her working before. She didn’t notice me staring across the street through the window. The waitresses there have the sixties diner uniform, a button-up collared dress with a matching apron. It’s cliché, obviously, but I couldn’t take my eyes off of her. The thought makes me clench my teeth. I can’t stand this woman, but I also can’t deny her beauty or the infuriating,growing connectionI seem to have with her.
Squeezing out the last tube into the trash, I drop it in with the rest, snap a picture, then email it to her since I don’t have her number. I grab a stool, my sketchbook, and go back to her space to sit and wait. Whether she likes it or not, we have to figure out what to make next because we are still in this competition. Now that we are in it as a team, I will be the best they have ever seen. I will prove myself to everyone.
