I'm in Eris' car again. I gaze at the dull, same-scenery-I've-seen-for-the-last-four-years whooshing past us, intent on not saying a single thing.

"You hungry?" she asks. "We can get something before the drive."

"I'm vegetarian," I say.

"I know," she says. "We can stop at a vegan place."

"I don't have any cash on me."

"I'll pay. Don't worry."

"Fine." 

With the groceries running low, I can't turn down free food. So Eris and I stop at a restaurant, the silence between us thick as we wait for our food to come.

She's fidgeting with that silver necklace, twirling the chain around her fingers. The more we wait, the more I notice these little details about her—a small mole on her upper cheek, the faint, bleached highlights throughout her black hair, her short and bitten nails. It's like I'll never run out of things to notice, so I stop. I pull the most Gen-Z thing imaginable and start scrolling on my phone. I started an art account a while back, promoting my paintings, and I've accumulated a decent following of five thousand. It's not much, but in this day and age it's all about the digital world, and most of my sales come through here—when I can sift out the genuine proposals from the scams. So I distract myself for a while, replying to comments and engaging with posts on my feed, until I'm thrown off by the uncanny feeling of Eris staring at me.

I look up at her. "What?"

"Good thing you wore that dress today," she says, and for a second I swear she looks down at my chest. "You'll fit right in at the art show."

My yellow dress with little pink roses on it. It's the polar opposite of her attire—black skinny jeans, thick boots, and a black leather jacket. She actually looks more put together than usual.

Before I can answer, the waitress comes with the food. Eris got french fries while I ordered a bowl with tofu, chickpeas, brown rice, and vegetables. I watch Eris dip her fries in an absurd amount of ketchup while I eat my much healthier meal. I fail to understand how she stays so skinny. It's as if no matter how healthy or how little I eat, my hips and thighs are always finding ways to put on weight. 

After we finish, it's back to the road. I'll be really uncomfortable if this turns into an overnight thing. I imagine Eris and I stopping at some hotel for the night, a room with only one double bed, her body next to mine in the dark.

"We'll be back later tonight?" I ask.

"Probably late," she says. "But yeah."

I breathe a sigh of relief. "Good. At least it's Friday, so we don't need to worry about getting up early tomorrow."

After a thirty-minute long silence, she asks me, "So, what's Canada like?"

"It depends on what part you're talking about," I say. "I've lived in Ottawa, Montreal, Winnipeg. But I'm planning on going to Toronto for university. Technically, I'm not legal in this country."

Eris lets out an obnoxious laugh. "No green card?"

"My uncle has it, but my dad, Fitz, and I have risked getting deported for the last four years."

"Damn, bro, I'm the Mexican one and yet you're the illegal here."

I roll my eyes, but against my will, my mouth quirks at her bad joke.

"You moved around a lot because your mom was in the military, yeah?" she asks. 

I tense in my seat. "Used to be."

"She's... dead?"

Memories flood back—the lacklustre funeral, the urn with her ashes me and Fitz scattered from a mountain in the European alps.

"Car crash," I say. "Back when we lived in Germany."

Eris' hands tighten around the steering wheel. "I didn't know that. Were you... in the car with her?"

"I was. We all were. She and my dad were in the front, arguing. They were actually arguing about your father when a car came crashing into us. She was pregnant. Fitz and I almost died."

My voice sounds so flat, so void of emotion, I can almost convince myself I've gotten over it.

"They were arguing about Iker," Eris whispers. "That's fucked."

I nod. "That was around the time they started making those deals together, and my mom didn't trust him."

Eris goes silent. Could she be thinking about that stunt she pulled the other week, speeding on the highway while I nearly had a panic attack?

"What was that like?" she asks after at least five minutes—I've been counting the seconds, tension filling the car like acrid smoke. "Almost dying."

I don't meet her eyes. I relive the weeks in the hospital, waking up covered in cold sweat in the middle of the night. My dad at my side, his worry and grief almost as painful as my wounds. The coma, the coma, that odd state of half-existence, the colors and all their vibrant dread.

Present intertwines with past, the colors from the coma and the perfect blue sky outside, both invading and overwhelmingly bright. Me, here. Alive. Me, there, in that upside-down car, pop music still tittering from the stereo, Fitz's mangled leg, broken glass in my arm, Mom's hands over her stomach as she let out a fragmented cry I still have nightmares about, cut off by the sound of her gurgling, gurgling, then finally drowning as her punctured lungs filled with blood.

"All I could think about was the painting I was working on," I begin, and even though this is Eris, and I'm Persephone, and I fucking hate her from the soles of her feet to the top of her head, I can't seem to hold back what I've told no one but my journal. "All I could think about was how I'd never be able to finish. I didn't have one of those out of body experiences where you're a ghost and see your own corpse from above or anything. I only remember this overwhelming darkness. And then it exploded into so many colors, some I didn't even know existed, like I was suddenly seeing the full spectrum of light. And then the colors stopped moving. They condensed together, becoming two-dimensional paintings I'd never painted before but knew were mine, dozens of them like the most brilliant, mystical gallery in the universe. What I'd never be able to achieve now that I was dying."

I take a moment to gather my thoughts, preventing myself from looking at Eris because I'm afraid it'll make me stop speaking. "That's when I knew I wasn't meant to die. I was born to bring all those paintings into existence, even if some of them had impossible colors I can't remember because they transcended my physical senses. They were so beautiful. Sometimes I feel as if they're what I have to create to be a success, and everything I paint now will never match up to that level of perfection. And I try, I try, I try, but it's never the same."

Eris' silence tells me I've said too much. Opened up too much, crossing an invisible boundary we were never meant to breach. I didn't expect it to feel so good to finally tell someone, even if it's her.

"How long did it last?" she finally asks, a touch of hesitation to her voice, like she's just as aware as I am of how bizarre it is that we're having this conversation.

"I'm not sure," I say. "The doctors said I was in a coma for three days. But walking through the gallery, it only felt like hours."

"That's so fucking sick," she says. "That's like, infinite inspiration for art. Maybe they're the paintings your soul created before being born. Like you were an artist even in these higher dimensions. You were literally made for it."

"I don't really believe in an afterlife," I say. "Or a... before life. I think this is all there is."

Eris makes a face. "That's so boring. When I die, I'm getting my ashes sent to Mars. Always been curious what it's like. I can imagine my ghost wandering there forever in the red desert and dust."

"More desert," I huff. "Sounds like hell."

She smiles, and there's not a hint of malice to it. Not a hint of her usual smugness. It's light and natural, the most genuine smile she's ever given me. My face remains stiff.

"What about you?" I ask. "Ever come close to dying?"

"Not yet," she says.

"You say that as if you feel it'll be soon."

She doesn't answer. Instead, while we're at a red light, she pulls out her phone and puts on music, some kind of female rap in Spanish that Fitz would probably like.

"Pay attention," I say when the light turns green, and she puts her phone down. "Both hands on the steering wheel."

She drives. I lean against the headrest, gazing out the window until I drift off. I doze in and out of sleep, dreaming of impossible colors and infinite, priceless galleries of art.

Eris nudges me awake. "Get up, pendeja. We're here."

The first thing I see is her, bathed in golden hour light, her poop brown eyes hazel, golden chains glittering in the sun. She's put up her hair in two buns at the top of her head, her short bangs framing her diamond-shaped face. She's even redone her eyeliner in two perfect wings instead of the usual smudge of black that makes her look like a raccoon.

"What the fuck are you staring at?" she asks.

I sit up, blinking, expecting to be in the middle of a crowded city, but we're somewhere that looks straight out of one of her landscape paintings, surrounded by mountains, patchy grass covering the ground.

"Sorry," I stammer. "It's just the first time I see you not looking like a total bum. Takes some getting used to."

She punches my arm, hard enough to hurt.

The only building is what looks like a small warehouse close by, a line of cars parked in front of it. I know nothing about cars, but some of them look expensive, sleek and close to the ground, with a few large 4x4 trucks as well.

"Where are we?" I ask, anxiety bursting through my chest. "Are we even in L.A.? How am I supposed to know you're not kidnapping me?"

She smirks at the thought. "You're just gonna have to trust me."

Then she reaches to open the glove box. And to my horror, she pulls out a golden gun.

"Trust you?" I sputter. "What—what is that? Is that real? Why would you need a—what kind of art show is this, Eris?"

"Oh, it's real," she says, smirk widening—the bitch is actually amused at my panic. She holds the gun carefully; it shines in the sun just like her necklaces. There are elaborate, detailed designs on the side and little jewels in the shape of the letter "E". I can imagine it perfectly, her dad ordering it custom-made as a gift for a fifteenth birthday.

"Eris," I say threateningly, but it's pathetic compared to the literal killing device she has in her hands. "What the fuck is going on?"

"There's a reason I can only take you."

"What? I... please tell me you're not going to kill me. Steal my kidneys and sell them on the black market? Or hold me for ransom? You know we're broke, I don't know why you would—"

The magazine of the gun slides out, and Eris counts the bullets before putting them back in.

"—even if I'm not the victim here, I'm not about to be implicated in a murder, oh my God, you act as if this is so natural, as if this isn't totally insane and I—"

"Chill," she interrupts—as if this is one of our normal arguments and I'm not scared for my life here. "I'm not going to hurt you. I'm not going to hurt anyone. Think of it like an accessory."

"Is there even an art show? Or did you lie to me about that, too?"

"I didn't lie to you about shit," she says. "I just... left out some of the details."

"Like what? What kind of people are coming here, Eris?"

She gives me a look. "What do you think?"

This is exactly what my dad warned me about. I was never supposed to get involved. I should've known—it's Eris Lugo of all people—but I was so desperate for her to work with me again I didn't think before I blindly agreed.

"You're taking me to an art show with drug lords," I say, and then laugh out of sheer panic. "I'm not going. I refuse. I don't need to be getting involved in your cartel bullshit."

She flinches, her brows furrowing, as if I've hurt her. "We had a deal."

"Why do you need me here?"

"You're the only one I don't need to lie to. The only one I don't need to keep secrets from. You already know what my family's involved in. It can only be you."

I scoff. "You can't go by yourself? Or how about with your body guards?"

I almost forgot about them. Their black car is parked a few metres away. A tall, brown-skinned man wearing plain clothes stands outside the door while smoking a cigarette.

"It's not the same," Eris says, in this small voice I've never heard from her. "I wanted real company."

"Company," I repeat. "So you're dragging me into this, potentially putting me in danger—all because you don't want to be alone?"

"You're not in danger," she's quick to say. "And yeah. Call it pathetic, but yeah. I can't fucking take being alone in this anymore. Everything I know, everything I've seen—I can't even tell my brothers. Most of the motherfuckers in this business are greasy men twice my age, and it's not like I can trust them anyway."

The sun is setting soon, golden hour coming to a close as twilight sets in.

I rub my temples. It's not as if I can turn back around and go home. I'm stuck here until the drive back with Eris. My heart's still pounding rapidly, dreading what's to come.

"I can't believe I let you drag me into this," I say. "My dad would have a heart attack."

"He doesn't have to know." She smirks. "C'mon, Ef, I know you don't get out much. Time to live a little."

She's right. This could be the most eventful day I've had in months, while for her it's just another Friday. 

"Fine," I snap. "Fine, I'll go with you. But only because we had that deal. That's the only reason, and you better not pull anything remotely like this ever again."

"You have my word," she says.

"Like that's ever meant anything."

She steps out of the car. I follow after her, gazing at the vast expanse of hills. She opens the trunk, and from inside she pulls out a painting.

I recognize it immediately. It's "Spring" by Maria Bashkirsteva, my favorite artist, depicting a woman in brown work clothes sitting by a path between flowering trees. I've tried for years to track it down, find exactly which museum it's displayed at—to no avail. And here it is in Eris' grubby hands.

"Is that what I think it is?" I gasp. "How do you have one of Bashkirsteva's paintings? I didn't even realize you knew who she was."

"She got famous because of her journal, I think," Eris mutters, not meeting my gaze.

I take the painting in my hands. The vintage oil paint, the yellowing coat of varnish—the details are far more vivid up close, a little faded after all these decades, but it's all there, and I want it to myself. To think Marie's hand touched this exact canvas, pouring for hours over each brushstroke.

"Where did you get this?" I ask. "I've been trying to look for it for years, went to every single museum in Paris when we visited, and you have it here."

"I..." she pauses, hesitant. Then she blurts out, "It's not real. It's a forgery."

I lower the painting to look at her. "A forgery?"

"Yeah. I made it."

"You painted this?"

There's absolutely no difference between this and the original, but then again it's not as if I have it here to compare. 

She nods. "I've been doing it for a while, forging paintings. My dad sells them as originals."

What? So not only is he part of a drug cartel, but he commits art crimes as well? Just when I thought it couldn't get any worse.

I always thought Eris' paintings were rip-offs of the old masters. It all comes together now—maybe it's the only way she knows how to paint.

"And it's easy for you?" I ask. "Copying?"

"Iker discovered I had a talent for it. So I got started young."

"It looks so real, though. The cracks, the varnish. How are you supposed to paint something now and make it look over a hundred years old?"

"There's lots of methods. And Iker got me the best teachers."

"So that's your secret," I say. "The only reason you even have a modicum of talent."

"What the hell is modicum?"

I roll my eyes. "A small amount."

She grimaces. "Fuck off. Soy una puta genia, y tu lo sabes."

I scan the painting again, trying to take it all in before it's gone forever. It's an excellent fake, I have to admit, and despite how many times I've read Bashkirsteva's diary, I'm not sure I would be able to perfectly replicate her work like this.

"And you're just going to pass this off as the original," I say.

Eris pulls out something from her pocket—one of those vaping devices with the fruity flavors—and takes a long drag. Gross. In addition to looking like a total douchebag, she'll probably get popcorn lung in a few years.

"Won't be too hard," she says. "Bashkirsteva is pretty much an unknown artist nowadays. Lot easier to forge stuff that people won't second guess."

"How much is it worth?"

"It's valued at $20,000," she says, blowing out a puff of smoke.

That's almost half of what I'd be receiving if I won the Arts Olympiad. Rich people really have it easy.

"I'm giving it to a guy who's in charge of running a shipment through Tijuana," she continues. "If the shipment gets busted by the feds, he gets to keep the painting. If not, he returns it to us later. It's like insurance."

"But it's a fake. So if you give it up, you lost nothing."

"Exactly."

"Where's the original?" 

"Iker sold it to an art dealer in Europe or something."

All I can hope is that it's someone legitimate who'll keep it safe and in the right temperature conditions. The Nazis destroyed a lot of Bashkirsteva's paintings during World War II, and anything left should be treasured.

"And this guy you're giving the copy to isn't going to find out?" I ask.

"Nah. He's a drug lord, not a high-end art dealer."

"What a con artist your father is."

She doesn't disagree. And finally, we step inside the warehouse.

▴ ▴ ▴

a/n: this chapter is dedicated to myhabibti!! immense thank you for your comments and kind words! 

"Spring" by Maria Bashkirsteva - 1884

(in the header i've included a photograph of maria herself)