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

mom. I’m already eleven years old, she still pecks me on my lips and pinches my face in front of everyone—it’s annoying. Who do girls

that I’m a good boy of the King and Hughes.

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

she shrieks

red lacks is like she has jammed her finger to the electrical outlet—so messy. She reminds me

goldfish?” I narrow my eyes, asking her annoyingly.

doesn’t like the nickname I

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

look like goldfish, Trinity,”

softly with a shaky voice. I

say, demonstrating how big her eyes are. “And what’s in that sketchpad of yours?” I quickly snatch from her grip. “As if you knew how to draw,” I grunt as I flip through pages.