COMPLEMENTARY [GxG]

Chapter 8 | Don't Sell Paintings To Drug Lords

Fitz comes in an hour later with his skateboard in hand.

"How's your new song doing?" I ask.

"1000 streams," he says, beaming, and his smile throws me off for a second—it's not often I see one on his usually stoic face, making him look boyish and carefree. "It's the most I've gotten. Think I'm finally getting somewhere."

"And your grades?"

"My grades are fine," he says, smile dimming. "Why you gotta always ask me about that?"

"It's my job. And guess what happened. I had Eris over."

"Eris was here?"

"Yep. We're finally getting to painting. Where's Dad?"

"Think he went grocery shopping."

"With what money?"

"Don't worry about it."

"How am I not supposed to worry? Now that this competition is taking up my time, I won't even be able to focus on selling more of my art."

Fitz sighs. "We'll be okay. But how was it with Eris?"

"Tolerable," I say. "I made it several hours without wanting to puke in my mouth, so I think we're actually getting somewhere."

"Maybe she ain't that bad."

"I don't know how you can stand her. How you can look at her and not be reminded that her family and their little mafia games is the reason we're in the mess we're in."

Fitz shrugs. "That was between her dad and ours. Nothing to do with her."

"Even so. She's insufferable."

He nods. "Aight. Anyway, I'm heading out again. Wanna come skate with me?"

"Absolutely not. And how many times do I have to tell you to bring a helmet?"

"Fine, I'll bring it."

He leaves, and the only way I can think of distracting myself from everything is to focus on the painting.

I start slowly at first. I think of all the images and shapes I planned last night, and they come back to me in faded blurs. I go for my usual geometric style, wanting it to contrast against Eris' parts of the painting as much as possible. This isn't the time for a relaxed approach. I get out my rulers and measure angles and lines, employing various geometric ratios to make sure it looks as aesthetically pleasing as possible.

First a stroke. And then another. And then another and another, each carefully placed, ensuring its maximum effect. By the time I'm finished, it's dark outside. I notice my stomach's grumbling once I snap out of my art-induced trance.

I look at it again, and my face tenses. I thought it was fine before, but now that I observe it from a distance, I see it for what it is. A clash of blue and yellow. Fragmented rays of sun. Eris' simple realism with my geometry. Contrasts, but not working together. Too separate, too distinct. The parts don't merge together to make a whole. It doesn't look good, no, far from that. It looks like two separate paintings jumbled together in a disorienting, haphazard mess.

It's terrible.

And I can't stop thinking about it until my dad comes in with bags full of groceries.

"How did you afford all this?" I immediately ask, stepping inside from the porch.

He sets the reusable cloth bags down. "I sold one of my paintings."

He's sold most of his paintings in the last few years as we've struggled, and there are only a few left.

"What about the money I gave you last week?"