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.

at me. Aunt Zoey, the redhead

still pecks me on my lips and pinches my face in front of everyone—it’s

play cool because everyone knows that I’m a good

the middle of the stairs. Her right

“Bash!” she shrieks in surprise.

messy. She reminds me of Nerida. She has freckles all over her face, and she’s too skinny. She’s Aunt Zoey and Uncle Logan’s daughter—our family friends. Kiara’s parents both work in our

are you doing here, goldfish?” I

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

murmurs and doesn’t meet my gaze as she grips her sketchpad to her

“Well, you look like goldfish, Trinity,”

not a fish, and my name is Kiara,” she says softly with a shaky voice. I know

Kiara or Trinity! You still look like a goldfish. You have orange hair with big eyes,” 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.