Chapter 28

The following day, for the first time in two weeks, I see Eris.

Every time I go to school, I mentally prepare myself for the possibility of confronting her again, but I’ve grown so used to her absence I’m completely thrown off, breath caught in my lungs, all sound drowned out by my heartbeat ringing through my skull.

She’s trimmed her hair. The uneven black spikes are now a short, trendy shoulder-length bob, with her blonde highlights touched up and vibrant. I’ve been meaning to talk to her. Warn her the police suspicious of her so we can get our story straight and tell them the same thing in case they interview her, too. I should want her to crash and burn, but if she falls, nothing stops me from following after.

And before I can think of what to say, I’m already storming toward her, needing her in my grip before she slithers away. For once, she’s alone in the parking lot, and I come up behind her and wrap my hand around the back of her neck, the contact overwhelming my senses as her contagion courses through my blood.

“We need to talk,” I say. “Privately.”

“Nice to see you too, baby,” she says, as if our rivalry is still the petty teenage animosity it was before and not something that could put us both in prison. I dig my fingernails into her skin, every rational thought dissipating, replaced by the rage I’ve kept under tight control since learning of her betrayal.

My hand on her neck, I drag her away from the crowd of high schoolers toward the side of the school where we won’t be seen.

And then we’re staring at each other. I’m used to the initial hit of adrenaline her sudden appearances always produce in me, but today, it’s not fading. She’s forcing her gaze to be neutral in all the ways I’m failing to be.

“Well?” I ask impatiently. “My name is in the news, every journalist in San Diego is losing their minds over why my painting was found heading into Tijuana with a Vermeer and a Manet, and just yesterday I had to give my testimony to the police. But enough about me. How are you, Eris? Chopping up any more fingers as of late?”

She gives me a low, disdainful little laugh, reaching for a hit of her vape pen. She makes no effort to blow the cloud away from me, and that’s it. I lose it. I shove her until she stumbles backward, her vape flying out of her hand, her elbows scraping against the asphalt as she falls.

“Really, bitch?” she asks. “You know first period starts in, like, ten minutes? Wouldn’t want the princesita to be late for class.”

“You had your father sell my painting without my permission,” I snap. “You’ve ignored me for two weeks while the police is actively investigating my family, and now you just show up as if you’re not actively ruining my life?”

“You think my dad sold the painting?” she laughs, leaning back on her bloody elbows, staring up at me without the slightest care in the world. “Nah, pendeja. That was all me.”

“All you,” I repeat. My voice comes out hoarse and silent. I needed to believe it was Iker. I needed to believe she wasn’t fully to blame, because the alternative would send me spiraling. And here I am, my hands starting to shake, spiraling.

“You broke your end of the deal,” she explains. “You didn’t finish paying me back. You know we don’t work like that, princesita.”

“I trusted you,” I say, even though what I mean is I kissed you, but admitting it out loud will only make me remember her warmth, the vulnerability in her eyes I thought would be enough to prevent her from cutting this deep.

“When did I ever give you a reason to trust me?” she asks, echoing the same words I told her weeks ago in the aftermath of my snitching to William. I’m as stupid as she is for taking me to L.A. Because I trusted her with my painting, making the same mistake.

“They’re going to think I’m involved,” I hiss. “They’re going to think you’re a trafficker and you’re working with Ximena!”

“You’re welcome,” she says. “Maybe now you can be famous like you always wanted.”

Every reason I’ve ever had to hate her is blaring at full-blast in my head, inflaming all the places she’s ever made me feel weak, and since she’s on the ground already, I don’t resist the urge to kick her.

But she grabs my leg and pulls, sending me falling beside her on my ass. Since we’re playing this game now, I bring my right hand back to give her a perfectly-angled hit, but she pushes me onto my back, crawling on top of me until she’s straddling my hips, the edges of my dress hiked up to my thighs, the back of my head throbbing after it knocked against the asphalt.

And before I can do it first, she punches me.

After the initial dizziness comes the pain, sharp like a million needles digging into my skin, but part of me melts in relief.

Because this is still Eris. I am still me. This is what our normal is. This is what we’re supposed to be.

Fire engulfs me, something far more ancient than this body can hold, this direct channel to somewhere deep in the ground with diamonds and magma and molten rock.

So this is what happens: I hit her back. Her jaw jerks upward, and she lets out a half gasp unthinkably similar to the sound she made when I marked her neck.

And just like that, less than a minute into our long-awaited conversation, we’re both bloody. We roll around on the asphalt in a violent embrace, pulling and scratching and kicking and punching, and every jab has to be enough to forget that this isn’t all we’re capable of. Judging by how hard she hits, she wants to forget even more than I do. It’s all her eyes have been begging me for underneath the forced nonchalant demeanor. So I’m doing her a favor, drawing her blood so she’ll never misunderstand her place again.

If we keep going, we’ll end up breaking something, but neither of us stops. Once I get to the dominant position again, using my heavier weight to make her motionless under me on the asphalt, I do it. Just as she’s about to pull my hair, I wrap my hands around her neck.

The mark I left her two weeks ago has faded completely. Good. I will give her the righteous bruises I always planned on; I will make her skin bloom purple not with bites, but the imprint of my hands.

I squeeze. My nose is bleeding, dripping onto her face, and the bitch licks her lips, reddened with both her and my blood.

I want to break the bones I once measured so carefully. Their outlines crashing against mine only adds to the dull, painful hum. No one had ever been so careful, so deliberate, and she deserved none of it. She’s never deserved me even breathing in her direction.

“You are so lucky I didn’t tell the cops about you,” I say. “Because believe me, they did ask.”

She wrenches my hands from her neck and snaps, “If you tell them anything, I will cut you into pieces, bitch.”

I remember her scars. Her self-inflicted cuts. “Just like you cut yourself?”

In return, she grabs the hem of my dress and pulls, ripping the fabric in her small hands. A heavy slit now runs up the side of my thigh.

“That,” I say slowly, “was one of my favorite dresses.”

“I’ll buy you a new one,” she mocks. “I’ll buy you a dozen dresses if you want.”

After more grabbing and pushing and not landing any more hits, I scratch down her side. Warmth coats my fingers, smearing over her white shirt. Her blood. Her busted lip is already bleeding down her chin, but my nails aren’t that sharp—I know I didn’t dig them far into her side to bleed.

I must’ve opened up a fresh wound.

It should make me feel guilty for what I just said, but I must be depraved, because I get the impulse to lift the back of my hand to my mouth, and her breathing stops. Her eyes flicker rapidly in shock as she watches me taste her blood on my skin like she tasted mine.

Then she’s on top of me again. Instead of hitting me, she touches my cheek with the backs of her fingers, so disorienting it momentarily paralyzes my defenses.

“I used to daydream about us being friends, you know,” she says, skimming the line of my jaw. “All the time before you showed me how much of a bitch you are. But this,” she continues, tracing my collarbone and burning me with all her wretched heat. “This is so much fucking better.”

Another feeling jolts up my spine, a line of shivers curling around my chest, but it’s not pain. Eris has her knee between my thighs, pressing between my legs over my ripped dress.

What the fuck? The aftershocks from her punches spread lower, and I’m wondering if she’s just insane or oblivious to the compromising placement of her leg, wondering so much I nearly forget we’re in a fight—and she hits me again.

I let out an involuntary gasp, only half out of pain but enough to disguise the reaction at the unfamiliar pulsing shooting up my hips.

The only thing that makes her pull away is the sudden appearance of students. One by one, they notice and crowd around us, pulling out phones to record the fight, laughing and pointing and cheering. I see the girl with the cornrows who offered me a hair discount staring with wide, curious eyes. I see, Sara, Eris’ “ex”, actually smiling.

But as the hooting and amount of phone screens intensify, before I can give them a good show, the school security guards intervene. Eris and I are bleeding, my face throbbing and my arms lined with scratches. But Eris is relentless, shouting profanities at me and kicking in the air while a guard grabs her, and the other pulls me away.

▴ ▴ ▴

Half an hour later, after the nurses try their best to fix our faces—in separate rooms, of course—Eris and I are sitting in Montoya’s office instead of finishing first period.

I’ve never seen Montoya angry before, but the woman is pissed, her eyes huge behind her pink—and today heart-shaped—frames.

“Girls…” she says after a long sigh. “I’m aware you do not get along… but this is… this is unacceptable.”

I glance at Eris, who looks worse than I do. Although my face is also swollen, my dark skin privilege in this moment makes my bruises much less visible than hers.

“And your finalist interview is in fifteen minutes!” Montoya shrieks. “Did you forget?”

I forgot. I had put reminders, but today, as I lunged on Eris, it completely slipped my mind.

“The associate for the Olympiads flew all the way from New York to be here,” she continues. “And you two are causing a ruckus in the entire school. And now you both look, oh my, you both look absolutely ghastly. And we can’t re-schedule, and you’re going to be on camera!”

“Won’t be the first time today,” Eris mutters. “Half the school’s probably already seen the videos.”

Just what I needed. I’ve always dreamed of attention, but with my art in the news for being part of an arms bust and now a video of me fighting Eris Lugo circulating through the Internet, it’s about time to crawl into a hole and never come out.

“We’ve been, uh, having some issues, miss,” Eris says.

Montoya folds her hands over her perfectly-shined wood desk, seething. “Well, resolve them like the grown women I know you are, not like criminals in a prison yard.”

She’s not wrong. Both Eris and I clearly have serious issues. We make each other the most toxic versions of ourselves, allowing space for everything corrosive to manifest. I haven’t spoken to a therapist since the months after my mom’s death, but I’m positive no professional would deem the obsessive dynamic between Eris and I as healthy in the slightest.

“What happened?” Montoya asks. “You were doing so well! What about your painting?”

“We haven’t started it yet,” Eris admits.

Montoya gasps. “What? Persephone? Explain this.”

Even she knows that out of us both, I’m the responsible one. She had high expectations for me, and I’m nauseous at letting her down.

“Eris has been ignoring me,” I say. And selling my art to the mafia, I want to add, but obviously, I don’t. “She didn’t even invite me to her birthday party.”

Eris scoffs. “Please, bitch.”

Montoya snaps a finger at her. “Eris! Where are your manners?”

Eris huffs, looking like she’s rather be lighting up a joint and frying her brain rather than sitting through this conversation.

Montoya then looks at me. “Well, what’s going on?”

My face burns. How are Eris and I supposed to paint the goddesses if we resort to fighting like animals?

“Every time we get to a point where it feels like we can trust each other somewhat, one of us ruins it,” I say carefully. “And then we fight.”

“And how can we break that pattern?” Montoya asks, and God, I really don’t want our school principal to become our relationship counselor over here.

“How about Persephone stops making out with my brother, for one,” Eris says, the safest thing to admit out loud.

“That was a year ago,” I snap. “How could you still be upset over it given what you…” I shake my head.

Montoya nods in an effort to act understanding. “I know that it’s always drama between two girls, especially those as strong-willed as you…”

“I’ve never had drama with a single other girl,” Eris interrupts. “They all just take it and leave.”

“Which is why you can’t stand that I don’t put up with your behavior,” I add. “Everyone walks on egg-shells around you because of your money. I couldn’t care less.”

And yet my only ticket out of obscurity at the moment is this deranged narco and the stupid competition. I hate how many angry tears I’ve cried over her. I hate absolutely everything, the reason I repel any living thing within a ten-meter radius. I can’t help it.

“Listen to me!” Montoya pipes up. “I don’t care what’s going on now, or whatever happened in the past. You have one week until the final painting is due. Your flight to Mexico City is only a few days before then, and you must not let this go to waste. And yes, I will be promptly suspending you two. But instead of staying home, you will spend the week in the art room, working on your painting.”

Well, that’s one way to prevent Eris from ignoring me. Maybe now we can finally start. Still, everything is approaching too fast. I’ve dived into my usual routine for the last two weeks while Eris dropped off the face of the earth, and now…

Eris juts her busted lip out and crosses her arms over her chest, angry as ever. A deep scratch on her elbow is bleeding again.

And now we have an interview to do.

▴ ▴ ▴

Our interviewer is a young woman who comes in with a bubbly enthusiasm as she greets Montoya, but all the light fades from her face once she takes a look at Eris and I’s swollen faces, imprinted with one another’s fists.

“Are… are you two alright?” she stammers.

“Never been better,” Eris says. “Really made my day here when Persephone over here decided to jump me.”

“Stop trying to make me look bad,” I snap. “It was mutual.”

Montoya, already frazzled from Eris and I’s fighting, is blurting out apologies, guiding the interviewer to a velvet seat.

She scans our faces again, clipboard in her lap. “You two… had a fight?”

“Yep,” Eris says with no further explanation.

“But you’re going to Mexico City in a week! You’re finalists.”

I glare at the ground, hating how my first real media appearance is tainted by Eris’ stupidity. And mine. She didn’t have to steal my painting. I didn’t have to kiss her.

When both of us stay quiet, the interviewer clears her throat. “I apologize. I was just… a little taken aback, but I…”

After an awkward pause, Montoya is looking more stressed than ever, sitting behind her desk, and the interviewer quickly shifts gears, plasters a smile on her face, and reaches out a hand before introducing herself.

Then she proceeds to say the most basic thing imaginable: “Well, you have our whole committee so curious about the artists behind the stellar works you’ve created so far, so tell me a little about yourselves.”

This should be my moment. I have a pre-determined sequence of talking points to best highlight my work, and I force myself to ignore the scabs and scrapes and muster an equally fake smile.

“Thank you,” I say. “I’ve been painting since I was two. In my art, I enjoy mixing the abstract with the geometric and surreal with some introspective elements. I’ve found myself drawn to more modern works, but two of the painters I look up to are Maria Bashkirsteva and Amrita Sher-Gil.”

The lady, unimpressed with my response, looks at Eris, who sighs and leans back in her chair, arms draped over the armrests like she owns the place.

“I’m into realism, I guess,” she says.

The interviewer—Catherine, I think—waits for her to elaborate, but Eris is giving nothing. What’s her problem? Shouldn’t she like the attention? I’m sure we’ll make an impression.

“You are quite the mystery,” Catherine says. “Everywhere but nowhere. Your father is prominent in the scene, but it’s not you who’s stepped into the spotlight yet.”

At first, I start to panic at the words prominent in the scene, imagining desert ranch parties and stockpiles of drugs and guns, but she’s only talking about the art scene. 

“I’m still young,” Eris says with a casual confidence. “I got time. And just in case you forgot, I did win the last Olympiad.”

“Right, yes, but I…” She fumbles with her notes. “I think we’ve been expecting something more… explosive from you, given your connections.”

Wow, she’s really dragging Eris to filth over here. I’m smiling, thrilled that I’m not the only one who sees it.

Eris scoffs, kicking her feet up on the coffee table. Even her gold jewelry is crusted with blood. The footage of the interview will be posted on their official website, and this is the worst time to be acting like a brat.

“This isn’t explosive enough for you, Catherine?” Eris asks.

“Oh, well, you know what I meant,” she replies with a nervous laugh.

“No,” Eris says, clearly annoyed now. “I don’t.”

Cue another awkward silence.

“Our final painting will surpass all your expectations,” I declare. “All masterpieces take time.”

“And what brought you two to work together?” Catherine asks.

I’m about to come up with a sanitized response, but Eris finally perks up. “Oh, we hate each other’s guts. Ever since the last Olympiad. Then  surprise surprise, she’s the new student at my school, so we’ve been at each other’s throats. Montoya almost expelled us for fighting a couple years ago.”

Montoya shakes her head with disdain, her pearl earrings clicking together as if saying I would have you both expelled today if I didn’t need you to win gold. 

Catherine raises an eyebrow. “I didn’t realize this… conflict between you two went so far back. How intriguing.”

“It was principal Montoya’s idea for us to work together,” I explain. “To join our different skills.”

“And how has that been going?”

Eris and I exchange glances, and for a second the room fades, and all I see is her at the center of everything that’s ever gone wrong. The center of every unacceptable thing I’ve ever felt.

“We are opposites in every way,” I say, breaking away from Eris because I can’t stand the heat rising on my swollen cheeks. “I’m surrealism, she’s realism. I’m geometry, she’s impressionism. I’m calculated, she’s impulsive.”

“But your second painting, it was phenomenal! The anatomy of the bones was perfect. Tell me, how did you get it like that?”

I freeze.

“You gonna tell her?” Eris asks me. “How you got it so perfect?”

My hands on her body, memorizing her bones, the little hitches in her breath.

“There’s a lot of things I should tell her,” I say, eliciting a scowl on Eris’ heart-shaped face.

I wonder if Catherine has read the news. If she knows my painting was seized by the police. It would be obvious in her body language if she’d heard of it, and she’s not showing any signs. But maybe art snobs aren’t the best at keeping up with current events, especially since she’s not even from here. What if they decide to disqualify me once they find out? It’ll be any day now. I’m not under custody or anything, but I’m sure the committee would rather preserve their prestige than give the win to a girl who got her painting into the hands of arms traffickers.

I can’t believe Eris didn’t even consider this possibility. Tears sting my throat. I can’t lose. I can’t lose this because of her.

“Yes,” Catherine says. “What caused this fight today? Is this an artistic disagreement, or something else?”

“Artistic disagreement,” Eris and I say at the same time, and our heads jerk in the other’s direction for a second with mutual glares.

“Two opposites joining forces for this year’s event,” Catherine mutters. “Even with the most famous art rivalries in history, I don’t think any of them got this bloody.”

▴ ▴ ▴

a/n: it FINALLY happened. ngl, the build up to them finally fighting was almost as good as the kiss. and this is one of the scenes from the early draft that survived this brutal re-write. did you expect them to fight like that? was waiting for the inevitable eris x ef confrontation worth it? the upcoming chapters will be filled with more of their scenes, so keep an eye out for new chapters!

i listened to so much music writing this, but highlights are “no soy un angel” by n4hi (linked in the header before the chapter) and the “baby one more time” cover by the marías.