Bashing Trinity

BASH

I am so annoyed with the art teacher who didn’t appreciate my watercolor painting. I hop out of the car without thanking my driver.

Sprinting inside the house with my backpack tightly grasp, I stomp my feet to our expansive living room. I was practicing the same concept last night over and over again until it looked satisfactory.

I admit I’m so bad at art, but it hurts my ego because I’m excellent at every subject. I can play the piano, cello, violin, and guitar with my eyes closed. I can solve math in just one look at the problem, but art? Ugh! I grimace at the thought of it.

I stop to halt when I notice mom and one of her best friends are laughing together. Their voices are echoing in the living room.

They abruptly stop when they notice me.

I roll my eyes. Mom’s beautiful face lights up and smiles at me. Aunt Zoey,

not in a mood to deal with them, especially mom. I’m already eleven years old, she still pecks me

because everyone knows that I’m a good boy of the

over my shoulder. I almost bump into Kiara, whose standing in the middle of the stairs. Her right hand is gripping the rails, and the other is on her sketchpad, pressing against her chest.

“Bash!” she shrieks in surprise.

eyes are big and grow even bigger. Her curly or more or like ringlet red lacks is like she has jammed her finger to the electrical outlet—so messy. She reminds me of Nerida. She has freckles all over her face, and she’s too skinny. She’s Aunt Zoey

“What are you doing here, goldfish?” I

lips quiver. She doesn’t like the nickname I give her, but

she grips her sketchpad to her chest. She didn’t meet

goldfish,

name is Kiara,” she says softly with a shaky voice. I know she’s going to

demonstrating how big her eyes are. “And what’s in