Page 5 of Rivals
Just as I pass Revna, I peek at her canvas, and my steps falter. From what I can see, it’s beautiful.
I hate it.
Taking a step closer, I notice the painting is eerily similar yet completely different from mine. It is abstract in nature, but if you angle it the right way, it looks almost… familiar. The position I am standing from makes it look like it would go with mine, complimenting it because of its odd impressionist take, which is weird. Almost as if it’s a mirror of mine.
Righteous anger lights my veins, and I stomp towards her. Her earbuds are in, and I slam my hand on the wall next to her canvas, which is also the same size as mine.
“What the hell is this?” I yell.
She doesn’t even respond. She continues swiping paint back and forth in a place that I don’t think needs more paint. I yank her earbud out of her ear, and it dangles down, swinging back and forth.
“What does it look like, asshole? It’s a painting. Now get out of my space, or I’ll scream, and school security will come running.”
“Oh, you mean the mall cop?”
She shrugs. “It’s either him or the retired green beret out there tonight. I don’t know. Should I go check?” Dragging my gaze from her lips to her eyes, I find her waiting for me to respond. Her pupils are blown, and I’m not sure if it’s me causing that response or maybe she’s on something like I am.
I don’t care.
Instead, my body moves before my brain decides to. I grip her chin, forcing her to look at me. I see the spark of anger push through her black pools, and she growls, the vibration making my hand tingle. “I don’t know what you are getting at, but you need to change yours. It looks too similar to mine. Do you understand, little bird?”
“Screw you,” she says, her tiny arms trying to push me away.
“You would be my last choice, Revna. Change it.” Leaving no room for discussion, I drop my hand and turn to leave.
“I will beat you, you know.”
My steps halt. Not because I think she’s right, but because what she said is hilarious. “Yeah, and I’m the next Michelangelo.” She sneers at me, her brush gripped tightly in her hand. I can’t wait to wipe that look off her face when I win the MoMA exhibition.
Chapter 6
Revna
Thatself-righteous,self-importantpieceof shit that isn’t worth the speck of paint sitting on his cheek, blending in with the freckle that sits to the left of his right eye and into his growing beard. Who does he think he is, telling me to change my painting because he thinks it looks too much like his?
I stomp over to his paint area and stare at his drying canvas. What the hell is he talking about? The strokes are all different. The coloring is nowhere close to mine. I’m using a brick-red, and he clearly has a red-orange. Idiot.
I turn and go back towards my painting, and then I see it. How. In. The. World. That’s impossible. It has to be the drugs.
It’s not, Revna.
I spin around. No, no one is here. What in the world? I glance up at the ceiling and check my earbuds. Nothing is playing. What the hell did I take? I have never had voices talk to me on OBA. This is a new one, even for me.
It’s not the drugs.
The hell it’s not!
Ok, well, it’s not. Go finish what you need to do. You’re almost there.
What are you talking about? It’s done. I stomp back to my area, trying to ignore how my painting oddly goes with Lachlan’s. Yet, this is the first time I’ve seen it. I know for a fact this is the first time he has seen mine because I just started it.
It needs more purple.
Um, no. Because if I did more purple, then it really would look similar to Lachlan’s.
Trust me.
Why would I trust the voice in my head that is likely a result of the sketchy drugs I took? I stare at my work. I think it’s going to get me to the next round. I feel good about it. But the last time I felt good about any piece, it was trash according to professors and other artists who were critiquing it, so what the hell do I know? Pacing back and forth, I try to see it from all angles. The voice is right. I need more purple. It will complement the other cool tones, which will make the red and bits of yellow pop. I’ll listen to you, voice. Just this one time.
