Chapter 1: The Painting They Laughed At
My sister stole my painting before the final brushstroke had dried.
Then she slapped me when I tried to stop her.
And three hours later, she stood beneath the competition lights, accepting perfect scores for a masterpiece she hadn't painted.
I was still holding the brush when Vanessa reached across my worktable and grabbed the frame.
"Give it back," I said.
She didn't even look at me.
"Don't start, Maya.""
"That's my painting.""
Vanessa pulled harder.
The canvas shifted between us, its wet surface catching the pale morning light coming through the studio window.
I'd spent three months working on it.
Three months of cancelled plans, sleepless nights, stained clothes, and meals eaten beside an easel because I couldn't afford to waste time walking downstairs.
My wrist hurt.
My back ached.
There was cold coffee beside my elbow and dried blue paint beneath my fingernails.
Vanessa had come downstairs wearing a silk robe, expensive perfume, and the expression of someone who had already decided the world owed her something.
She looked at the painting.
Then she looked at me.
"Let go.""
"No.""
Her eyebrows lifted.
"Excuse me?""
"You have your own entry. Take that one.""
Her mouth tightened.
"Mine isn't ready.""
"Then finish it.""
For a moment, she seemed genuinely offended that I'd suggested she solve her own problem.
Then she laughed.
"You're being ridiculous.""
"I'm being serious.""
"Maya, the submission deadline is today.""
"I know. I've been preparing for it since September.""
"And I've been preparing for it too.""
I stared at her.
Vanessa had purchased a few expensive brushes, taken photographs of my sketches, and spent approximately four afternoons pretending to understand the techniques I'd explained to her.
That was her preparation.
Mine had involved hundreds of hours of actual work.
"You can't submit something you didn't make," I said.
Her expression changed.
She released one side of the frame, stepped closer, and struck me across the face.
The sound cracked through the studio.
My brush fell.
I stumbled backward into the worktable, knocking over a jar of rinse water.
"Know your place," she said.
My cheek burned.
Vanessa adjusted the sleeve of her robe as if she'd merely brushed dust from it.
"Everything in this house is mine.""
She looked down at the canvas.
"Including this.""
I swallowed.
"You can't take it.""
"Watch me.""
She lifted the painting and turned toward the door.
I followed her.
"Vanessa, please.""
She paused.
For one foolish second, I thought she might reconsider.
Instead, she glanced at my face.
"Don't make this embarrassing.""
"I made it.""
"Nobody cares who made it. They care who presents it.""
Then she walked out.
The door closed behind her.
I stood in the middle of the studio, listening to her footsteps disappear down the stairs.
My cheek throbbed.
Water spread across the floor.
My painting was gone.
And the worst part wasn't even that she'd stolen it.
It was that I had known exactly how this would happen.
Vanessa had been doing this since we were children.
When I won a school art competition at thirteen, she told our parents she'd helped me.
When a teacher praised my sketches, Vanessa said I'd copied her ideas.
When I received a small scholarship for an arts program, she convinced our mother that I should share the money because Vanessa needed a new laptop.
Every time I protested, the same sentence followed.
"She's your older sister.""
As though being older gave her ownership of everything I created.
Our mother, Diane, appeared in the doorway several minutes later.
She looked at the overturned water jar.
Then at my cheek.
"What happened?""
"Vanessa took my painting.""
Mom sighed.
"She's under a lot of pressure.""
"She hit me.""
Her expression barely changed.
"Did you provoke her?""
I stared at her.
"Mom.""
"Both of you need to calm down. This competition is important for Vanessa's future.""
"What about mine?""
She picked up a fallen cloth and placed it on the table.
"Maya, be realistic. Vanessa has connections. She knows how to present herself. You should be happy your work is getting this kind of exposure.""
I felt something inside me go very still.
"She stole it.""
"Don't use such ugly words.""
Mom left before I could answer.
For several minutes, I couldn't move.
Then I looked at the empty easel.
A pale rectangle marked the floor where the canvas had stood.
Three months of my life had disappeared into someone else's hands.
I sat down.
The studio smelled of wet paper, turpentine, and coffee.
My phone buzzed.
It was an email from the competition coordinator.
*FINAL PRESENTATION REMINDER: PARTICIPANTS MAY CHOOSE EITHER A COMPLETED SUBMISSION OR A LIVE DEMONSTRATION.*
I opened the message.
Read it once.
Then again.
Most finalists had registered to present completed work.
So had I.
But the rules allowed participants to change their format before check-in.
I looked toward the shelves.
A blank canvas leaned against the wall.
Beside it sat my collection of pigments, brushes, and a small sealed container I had prepared weeks earlier.
My breathing slowed.
I picked up my phone and called the coordinator.
"Good morning," a woman answered.
"My name is Maya Bennett. I'm one of the finalists.""
"Yes, Maya. How can I help?""
"I need to change my presentation format.""
There was a brief silence.
"From completed submission to live demonstration?""
"Yes.""
"Are you sure? The judges will evaluate the finished work within the allotted time.""
I looked at the blank canvas.
"Yes.""
"All right. I'll update your registration.""
I thanked her and ended the call.
Then I stood.
I washed the water from the floor, collected my brushes, and packed my supplies.
Before leaving, I glanced at the empty easel.
Vanessa thought she had taken my only chance.
She hadn't.
She had taken the painting.
May you like
She had not taken the knowledge in my hands.
And she had no idea what I was about to do.
