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.

me. Aunt Zoey, the redhead does

years old, she still pecks me on my

cool because everyone knows that I’m

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 in surprise.

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 and Uncle Logan’s daughter—our family friends.

are you doing here, goldfish?” I narrow my eyes, asking her

like the nickname I give her, but I like

a bully, Bash.” She murmurs and doesn’t meet my gaze as she grips her sketchpad to her

“Well, you look like goldfish,

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

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