COMPLEMENTARY [GxG]

Chapter 2 | The Scream

"Didn't you see her painting?" I ask. "Wasn't it absolutely atrocious?"

"The judges like that boring classic shit," Fitz says, sitting at the edge of my—or, more accurately, our—bed. We share a bunk bed with him on top and me on the bottom—the only way we had enough space to fit our belongings into one room.

"Yet you're the one that spends time with her," I say. "Traitor."

He rubs his nose, nudging his silver septum ring off-center. "We just go to the same skate park. And she sells me weed sometimes. That's it. I thought you wanted me to spy on her for you."

I sit up. "She sells you what?"

The fact she exists already offends me. The fact the judges picked her painting over mine already offends me. Everything about her is vile—how she shamelessly skates down the halls at school, scabs up and down her arms, backwards baseball cap on her head. Skinny legs and no waist, and she looks like a raccoon with that black eyeliner always smearing down her face, her infuriating little smile revealing the gap between her front teeth. And now for her to have Fitz's cash in her pockets on top of the money she's already swimming in? I can't accept it.

"Uh, my friend ran out last month, and she had extra," Fitz mutters.

"Because her father literally works for a drug cartel," I say. "Of course she has extra. She probably has a truckload coming in each week."

"...I don't know anything 'bout that."

We both should given that William, our journalist uncle on our mother's side, has lived here for a decade. The world of cartel violence fascinates him, and and occasionally he'll go to the US-Mexico border to investigate. One would expect him to draw a lot of attention being a tall Haitian guy, but according to him, there's a lot of Haitians in Tijuana. How convenient. 

"I don't want you near her," I tell Fitz. "Especially not to buy anything. I don't need that family taking more any money from us."

"Aight, I get it," Fitz says, standing up.

"And how many times do I have to tell you to stop skating? One, it's dangerous. Are you forgetting there's no such thing as universal healthcare here? Two, smoking the way you do is going to stunt your brain development. And don't come at me with the "it's legal" argument. You're not twenty-one. Which means that three, if you get caught with it, you'll be in so much trouble. Especially with that tattoo on your face."

His neutral expression gives way to a frown. My brother has the word CATATONIA inked on his temple, which he got at fifteen—yes, fifteen—after our mom passed. I suppose it's a rapper rite of passage, but it's been three years, and he hasn't even hit 1,000 monthly listeners yet. The tattoo did, however, make him a hot topic among the girls at school here, which disturbed him so much he actually started borrowing my makeup to cover it up.

"Damn," he sighs. "I thought we were talking about Eris, not me."

"Don't say her name out loud," I snap, then take a moment to compose myself. "Anyway. When are you getting a job?"

I'm expecting him to go off about capitalism, wage slavery, the futility of it all—his usual excuses. But he just shrugs, which is Fitz code for not anytime soon.

"So you think it's fair that I'm the one putting my blood, sweat, and tears into selling my art so we can pay the bills," I begin, "while you get to sit around smoking weed with the enemy?"

"No one's telling you to pay the bills, Persephone."

"Well, someone has to. What's the other option? Credit card debt?"