COMPLEMENTARY [GxG]

Chapter 28 | Les Prophétesses

The final painting becomes a massive whirlpool engulfing everything in its path. At the end of the day, Montoya is pleased with our efforts, and we do the same thing tomorrow. Eris and I sit in the art room for hours, toiling away at the canvas. The air is still thick since we last talked, increasingly heavier as we work in silence, absorbed in geometry and shadows and color schemes.

With the painting to ground our focus, we can pause to breathe without fighting, arguments, or anguished confessions. The time is passing by so much faster than the long days in which I didn't see her at all. But why? Why does my body feel lighter once she steps into the room? She's screwed me over more than anyone else ever could. She's abrasive, unlikable, and impolite, but maybe so am I. She makes me feel free to be as much of a bitch as I want, and it's comforting in that fucked up way I've now accepted is inevitable when it comes to us.

The painting comes to life. Nana Buluku glows in the cosmos, and her moon's light is so realistic it takes on a presence beyond the careful streaks of paint. On the bottom, Chalchiuhtlicue emerges from the waves in all her bronze glory, turquoise jewels embellishing her body. Eris spends a long time working on the sea foam, adding the finest details not even I would have the patience for.

Our flight is on Saturday. Eris and I will be taking, yes, a private plane—courtesy of Iker's jet club. We'll be in Mexico City Saturday evening, Sunday, and Monday—the actual day of the final showcase. At least it's a good excuse to miss school.

"Your godfather Alfonso who's coming with us," I say, pausing to mix the dark brown, almost navy tone of Nana Buluku's skin, using a method Eris taught me which requires only the primary colors. "What cartel is he part of?"

"The Tijuana OG's," she says. "But I do have a Sinaloa godfather, too. One Sinaloa, one Tijuana, one Guerrero. Collecting them like souvenirs."

"You must need to get baptized every few years to cleanse all the sins you rack up," I mutter.

"Exactly."

I roll my eyes. "Jesus would be appalled."

She pauses to look at me but doesn't argue. If there is a hell, she'll likely burn in it, and not for being a lesbian.

Her phone buzzes, and she pulls it out and stares at the screen with a small frown. "Wait. Iker's here to pick me up early. I forgot Daniel's soccer game is today."

She is the reason the police have my painting in their custody. The reason there exists a minuscule chance I'll get in trouble for the scheme she pulled. Sure, I haven't been pestered since my initial interview, and the lawyer William found me is confident nothing will come of their investigation, but I shouldn't be feeling this hollow at the idea of finishing today's painting session alone.

It must be plastered all over my face, because she nudges my arm and says, "Don't look so sad. I'll be back at two. Promise."

I hate how good she's become at reading my expressions.

"Wow, even giving me an exact time?" I say. "I'm surprised, Eris."

She stands up, paint streaked over her pants and white shirt like a true artist. "Shut up."

"I think I'm rubbing off on you."

"You fucking wish."

As promised, she shows up at two. We're both exhausted, but the painting consumes us, like we are these ancient goddesses' young prophets. In the first round, I overthought everything, but now I see the final product in my mind before it materializes, channeling some multi-dimensional scene.

The days pass. Tuesday becomes Wednesday becomes Thursday, and we're still not done.

"You know, you could just come to my house and we could finish it there," Eris suggests carefully. "We, uh, still have those silk pillow-cases, and the other day I got some fluoride-free toothpaste."