Chapter 2: The Girl With the Empty Canvas
The competition was held in the grand exhibition hall of the Harrington Arts Center.
Gold lettering covered the entrance.
Photographers crowded the red carpet, and enormous arrangements of white flowers stood beside the registration desks.
I arrived carrying one canvas, a battered wooden box, and a canvas bag full of supplies.
Everyone else seemed to have brought an entire studio.
A young man rolled in three metal cases.
A woman in a silver dress had two assistants carrying framed paintings.
Another finalist was discussing lighting arrangements with a technician.
I checked my registration number.
Twenty-seven.
"You're the live demonstration participant?""
A volunteer approached me.
He was probably in his early twenties and wore a blue staff shirt.
"Yes.""
He glanced at my equipment.
"Do you need help carrying anything?""
"No, thank you.""
He pointed toward an empty station.
"You're over there. They'll provide an easel and a worktable.""
I thanked him and started setting up.
My hands were trembling.
I tried to hide it by arranging my brushes.
Then I heard a familiar laugh.
"Honestly, I can't believe she came.""
I didn't need to turn around.
Vanessa.
She stood near the main exhibition display in a bright coral suit, her dark hair arranged in perfect waves.
My painting rested behind her.
It looked beautiful beneath the gallery lights.
The central figure seemed almost alive, surrounded by deep blue shadows and warm golden reflections.
I'd painted it after spending weeks studying photographs of my grandmother's old house.
The open window.
The yellow curtains.
The empty chair beside the fireplace.
The chair where my grandmother used to sit every evening.
I'd wanted to capture the feeling of returning to a place that no longer existed.
Vanessa had taken that feeling, too.
She stood beside it while a photographer adjusted his camera.
"Just a little to the left," she told him.
"I want the light to catch the texture.""
The photographer nodded.
"Beautiful work.""
"Thank you. It took months.""
I gripped the edge of my table.
She hadn't even bothered to change the story.
A woman approached Vanessa.
She wore a black blazer and held a clipboard.
"You're Ms. Bennett?""
"Yes.""
"I'm Eleanor Price, one of the competition coordinators. Could I confirm the title of your piece?""
Vanessa smiled.
"Where the Light Remains.""
Eleanor looked at the canvas.
"Lovely. And you created this independently?""
"Absolutely.""
I felt my stomach tighten.
Eleanor made a note.
"Wonderful. The judges will be interested in hearing about your process.""
Vanessa tilted her head.
"I'd be happy to explain.""
Then she noticed me.
Her smile widened.
"Maya!""
She approached, heels clicking against the polished floor.
"Look at you. You actually came.""
I continued arranging my brushes.
"Yes.""
Her gaze moved to my blank canvas.
Then to my small collection of paints.
She laughed softly.
"Oh, sweetheart.""
I didn't respond.
"You really are going to do this?""
"That's the plan.""
"With that?""
She pointed at my canvas.
I tightened the lid on a paint container.
"Yes.""
Vanessa leaned closer.
"Do you want me to speak to the organizers? Perhaps they can find you a beginner's category.""
I looked up.
"Don't worry about me.""
Her smile disappeared for half a second.
Then she bent toward my ear.
"Listen carefully. I have already presented your painting as mine. Don't make a scene. If you accuse me of stealing it, I'll tell everyone you gave it to me.""
"I didn't.""
"Can you prove that?""
I said nothing.
She straightened and smiled at a passing photographer.
"Good luck, little sister.""
She walked away.
I watched her return to the exhibition area.
A moment later, our mother appeared beside her.
Mom was wearing the pearl necklace Dad had bought her before he died.
She spotted me and immediately looked uncomfortable.
"Maya, can I talk to you?""
I followed her a few steps away from the other finalists.
"What?""
"Please don't create trouble today.""
I stared at her.
"Are you serious?""
"Vanessa is nervous. This competition could open doors for her.""
"It could have opened doors for me.""
Mom lowered her voice.
"Not everything has to be a competition between you two.""
"She stole my work.""
"She borrowed it.""
"She hit me.""
Mom glanced toward the stage.
"Keep your voice down.""
I almost laughed.
That was always her priority.
Not whether I was hurt.
Not whether I had been robbed.
Just whether anyone might hear.
"Mom, why do you always defend her?""
She looked at me with tired eyes.
"Because Vanessa knows how to survive in this world.""
"And I don't?""
"You make everything difficult.""
She turned and returned to Vanessa.
I watched them stand together beneath the exhibition lights.
Then I looked at my hands.
There was paint beneath my fingernails.
A tiny scar crossed my right index finger from an accident with a craft knife when I was sixteen.
Those hands had made everything Vanessa was about to receive applause for.
The coordinator stepped onto the stage.
"Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to the annual Harrington Emerging Artists Competition.""
The audience applauded.
I took my position beside my canvas.
The head judge, Margaret Ellis, introduced the panel.
I recognized her immediately.
She was a respected art historian whose lectures I'd watched online during the months I prepared my entry.
She had a reputation for asking difficult questions.
The first finalists presented their work.
One displayed a series of charcoal portraits.
Another showed a sculpture made from recycled metal.
The judges asked questions.
The audience applauded.
Then the coordinator announced:
"Our next finalist is Vanessa Bennett, presenting her work, Where the Light Remains.""
Vanessa walked onto the stage.
She held the painting with both hands.
I noticed how carefully she avoided touching the edges.
She positioned it before the judges.
The audience leaned forward.
Margaret Ellis studied the canvas.
"Beautiful use of light," she said.
"Thank you," Vanessa replied.
"Tell us what inspired this piece.""
Vanessa placed one hand against her chest.
"My grandmother's home. She passed away several years ago, and I wanted to preserve the feeling of being there.""
My throat tightened.
That was my grandmother's story.
My grandmother had taught me to paint.
She had been the one who gave me my first proper brush.
Vanessa had barely visited her.
"I spent months developing the composition," Vanessa continued.
"I wanted every detail to carry emotional significance.""
A judge adjusted his glasses.
"How did you achieve the reflections in the window?""
Vanessa paused.
Just briefly.
"I used a layered glazing technique.""
"Oil or acrylic?""
"Oil.""
I looked down.
The painting was acrylic.
I knew because I had painted it.
Margaret nodded.
"Interesting.""
Another judge leaned closer.
"Your handling of the light suggests a particular understanding of transparent layering. Could you describe your process?""
Vanessa smiled.
"Of course.""
She began speaking.
I watched the judges listen.
I watched the photographer take pictures.
I watched my mother wipe away a tear.
When the scores appeared, the audience applauded.
Nine.
Nine.
Ten.
Vanessa covered her mouth.
"Oh, my goodness.""
She looked toward our mother.
Mom clapped harder than anyone.
Vanessa stepped down from the stage.
As she passed me, she stopped.
"See?"" she whispered.
I looked at the scores.
Then at her.
"Congratulations.""
She blinked.
Perhaps she had expected me to cry.
Instead, she smiled and walked away.
The coordinator checked her notes.
"Our next finalist is Maya Bennett.""
I lifted my canvas.
The volunteer who had helped me earlier stepped forward.
"Need a hand?""
"No. I've got it.""
I carried the blank canvas onto the stage.
The hall was already buzzing.
People glanced at my empty work.
A man in the second row whispered to his wife.
"Is she serious?""
His wife covered her mouth.
I placed the canvas on the easel.
Under the bright lights, the white surface looked almost painfully empty.
Margaret Ellis leaned toward her microphone.
"Miss Bennett, would you like to introduce your work?""
I looked across the room.
Vanessa stood near the aisle.
Her arms were folded.
Her expression was almost delighted.
I took a breath.
"I'll paint it right here.""
A few people laughed.
Vanessa shook her head.
I picked up my water bottle.
Unscrewed the cap.
And poured water across the canvas.
The laughter grew louder.
But I kept my eyes on the surface.
Because I knew something the audience didn't.
The canvas was not empty.
May you like
Not really.
And when I picked up the broad brush, I could feel the first stage of my plan coming together.
