I decide I've had enough of Eris' company, and the last thing I need is to go to her house. She doesn't challenge me on that, and thus we decide we'll begin working tomorrow.

That night, I read through the International Arts Olympiad website.

For the painting division, the competition is in three rounds. Each round is a painting, and if you don't make it to the next round, you're out. All who pass to the third round will be considered finalists and will showcase their collection of paintings at a show in Mexico City. 

Each round has a separate theme, and they all relate to the central theme of contrasts. 

The admission fee is $120 USD each, and we're to turn it in with the signed form to the dedicated representative of the competition (in our case, it's Montoya)

For the first round, the theme is light and darkness. Round two: past and present. Round three: sorrow and joy. 

Each round has about three weeks between them. And we have four weeks until the deadline for the first painting. It would be great to get the paintings done as fast as possible so Eris and I can be done with each other, but I'll need to be patient. I know myself—I am a meticulous, calculated painter, and I don't know how that will work with Eris' impulsivity.

And as for the prizes, it's all status. Gold, silver, and bronze medals. Interviews and a chance to be featured in various art galleries and art shows. When I won silver last time, that's when I did a lot of interviews for the press, and my art sales picked up considerably. Not much has carried over to now, but maybe this is what I need to get my name back on the map.

I tell Fitz about the working-with-Eris thing. He thinks it's hilarious. I don't tell my dad yet. As for William, my uncle, it shouldn't concern him, but he'd probably want me to get close to Eris to get information about the organized crime her dad is involved in. It's exactly the type of stuff William is always covering on his journalism jobs.

According to him, there's an ever-escalating war going on. One of the original cartels in the Tijuana cartel is dying, swallowed up by opponents from the state of Sinaloa and then Jalisco further south. The first is the largest, most powerful crime organization in the world. The second is one of the fastest-growing cartels in history, infamous for its systemized violence. Tijuana, as one of the biggest border cities with the United States, has been prime territory for decades. Among hordes of American tourists visiting bars, beaches, and cheap medical facilities, it has one of the highest murder rates in the world. 

I just wonder which side Eris is on. 

The next day at school, I spend most of my time making a comprehensive, logical plan for the first round of competition. I include the general idea I already have for the painting, the amount of times we'll be working together, the location of these meetings, and the objectives for each painting session.

The final bell of the day finally rings, and by the time I locate Eris' car in the parking lot, she's already there.

She doesn't see me at first. Her friends surround her and talk among themselves as she picks at that same scab on her arm. Some of her friends are also artists, and they flock around her as if she's the modern day Monet.

One by one, they start to notice me. And silence washes over their little group. I'm sure they already know I'll be working with her for the competition—it's the type of gossip that travels fast. Ms. Montoya made a big announcement, and the school found out about the competition today. Well, at least those of us in the visual arts program. I had made sure to tell them that I was already working with Eris before getting bombarded with partnership requests. And I also made sure to emphasize the fact that I'm only working with her out of obligation and Ms. Montoya's urging, not because we're on good terms now or anything. My reputation would not be in very good condition if they started to think such things. Not that my reputation is in good condition regardless. Other than my art, I'm a nobody to these people.

Eris looks up from the ground, her gaze cool but cautious, her posture the same. She must've practiced this disinterested, casual stance beforehand. Her eyes are lined thick with black liner and smoky eyeshadow, making her look far more menacing than she actually is. And they don't leave mine as she says, "You guys can leave."

After her friends leave, Eris slumps against her car. Today, she's wearing a tight tank top and her usual arrangement of golden chains—as well as golden rosary with orange-yellow beads.

"Have you told your friends you're working with me yet?" I ask.

"Yep," she says. "Everyone wanted to be my partner, but I had to break it to them and tell them I'm already taken."

"In theory," I say. "I'm still not sure how well we can work together."

"Worth a shot." She opens the driver's door of the car and goes in. "The other door's already open."

Would this even be redemption for all the times I've lost to her? Do I have to swallow my pride? Let Eris take first place again? How can I outshine her while working with her? Is that even possible?

Carefully, I open the door and step into her car. It feels illegal. Wrong. I'm traversing far too deep into her territory. But I'm soon distracted by the golden cross pendants hanging from the rearview mirror. A little figurine of the Virgin of Guadalupe on her dashboard.

It makes sense that she feels the need to have all these saints and crosses protecting her. With the type of stuff her family is involved in, God is probably the only thing that could save them. I might have a fragmented family, but at least it's not theirs. Just how involved in the crime is Eris? Does she deal drugs? Act as a spy? I have no idea. What if working with her puts my own safety at risk? That's why I didn't tell my dad. He'd be worried for me.

I put on my seatbelt, everything immediately feeling wrong and out of place. I'm in her car. Eris' car. Breathing the same air, trying to stay calm in her inherently irritating presence. No clutter lies scattered over the seats, and other than the crosses there's nothing to indicate it's her car instead of anyone else's. It quivers with a strange sense of cleanliness and artificiality that contrasts directly with the rips on her jeans and her uneven hair.

She sticks her keys in the ignition, and the car rumbles to life. A few seconds later, and we're out of the parking lot and onto the road. She's not wearing her seat belt.

"Put on your seat belt," I tell her, adjusting my own.

She rolls her eyes. "I don't like seat belts."

"Put it on."

"Why does it matter to you?"

"Put it on."

"You're not my mother."

"Put on the seat belt."

"No."

"Put it on."

"The admission fee's $120."

"Do it."

"Perse-"

I reach over and grab her seat belt myself, pull it over her chest, and put it in its buckle.

"Was that so hard?" I ask.

She pulls at it with her left hand and scowls, leaving only her right hand on the steering wheel.

"Both hands on the steering wheel," I say. "Keep your eyes on the road."

"Are you kidding me? Why does it—"

"Both hands on the steering wheel."

"It's my car. I do whatever the hell I want."

"Not while I'm here. Hands on the steering wheel."

She glares at me for a second before slowly putting her left hand back on the steering wheel. My shoulders relax.

She wrinkles her nose. "The admission fee is $120 each."

If she says something about my "financial situation" again, I swear I am going to scream. "So what?"

"I'll pay for it. I'll pay for yours."

I remember the five dollars she gave me on Monday. "Are you mocking me again?"

"No. I'm being considerate."

"No thanks. We'll each pay our part."

"It doesn't matter to me if I have $120 less than I did before. It matters to you."

"How would you know? You're not an expert on my family's finances."

"I have at least an idea."

"You don't know anything about me."

She grins and tucks her hair behind her ears, revealing the numerous piercings lining them. "I know more than you think."

"You are so full of shit."

"Am I?"

She is. She's filled to the brim with it. Shit leaks out of her mouth and nostrils and other bodily cavities. It spills onto the car and infects everything she touches. Every time she talks it's not words that come out, but piles and piles of human feces. I'm not kidding.

I reach into my school bag and take out the paper I spent most of lunch working on, detailing all the times and objectives of our painting sessions, elaborated in a way which will ensure the best result with the minimum time spent together as possible.

"I made a plan for the first round," I tell Eris. "I estimate about two hours work for today, and then another hour the next time we meet up, and then—"

She takes the paper and looks at it for the briefest second before throwing it out the open window. 

It takes a few moments until I realize it. I watch the paper fly away from sight, and that's it. A scream escapes my throat, and Eris covers her ears with both hands, which makes me scream even louder for her to keep her hands on the steering wheel.

My fingernails dig even deeper into the leather seat. I should have expected this. It's Eris. I should have expected this from her. I resist the urge to do something regrettable, but only because we're in a moving vehicle, and an accident is the last thing we need right now.

"Turn the car around," I say between clenched teeth.

"The plan's gone, Ef. Deal with it. If you're working with me, it's time to improvise."

"Turn the car around."

"The plan—"

"Turn. The car. Around."

"No."

"Turn the car around. The plan is still there. Somewhere on the road. We will get it, and we will follow it, just like I had intended. Turn the car around."

She laughs. It makes me want to stick my fist down her throat. "What's that you said? Make the car go faster? Sure!"

She stomps on the accelerator pedal, and the car goes faster than I thought possible, zooming past the other cars on the road. My body goes into a panic. "Stop," I say.

"What's that? You want me to drive faster? Of course!"

"Eris," I say. The urge in my body to hurt her is replaced with the need to get away. "Stop."

"Even faster? Woah, Ef, feeling risky, aren't you? But okay..." She makes the car go faster, faster, and it feels like I'm falling with nothing to hold on to, and when I shut my eyes I see Mom and dad arguing over money—they were always arguing over money—and the car going too fast, Fitz and I in the back and my pleads for them to stop yelling, stop yelling. And then the whole Earth toppling over and rolling away and crash, crash, crash, crash, crash—six of them, lasting an eternity each—and this is it; this is the death they talk about; it is here, and—

I realize that the car is no longer moving.

I open my eyes. The road is empty. Eris pulled over.

"Persephone?"

I grab my backpack, shoving the door open and stepping out of the car. My eyes are watery. I am not going to cry. No, not in front of her. I blink a few times and will the tears to disappear. I feel small again, meaningless, worthless.

Erin steps out and jogs to catch up to me. "Hey, where are you going?"

I can't believe her. I can't believe how stupid she is.

"Home," I say. "No, actually, I'm going back to find my paper with my plan, and then I'm going home."

"What about the painting?"

My hands clench into fists. "I don't want to do that today."

I was a fool for thinking this could actually work out. There are four rounds in this competition, and we can barely organize ourselves for one.

"Wait, what?" she sputters. "Is this about the car thing? Are you kidding me?"

"Yes. That and the fact that you keep disobeying me."

"I don't get what's the big deal. It was just a joke."

"We could have died," I snap. "We could have gotten into an accident and died."

"There were no other cars on the road."

"Doesn't make a difference."

"You're such an uptight bitch, I swear to God."

"Good thing you won't have to deal with me anymore," I say, turning towards the opposite direction she was driving. I don't know how to get back. I'll find out. I'll call Fitz to come pick me up on his motorcycle. Motorcycles are much worse safety-wise, but even his driving is better than hers.

I start walking.

"Oh, come on," she whines. "We're working together. I need you. Ms. Montoya says that-"

"I know what she said," I interrupt. "I know that she'll ensure you pass all your classes if you work with me. It is irrelevant to me. If you're too stupid to pass your classes by yourself, that's not my problem."

She scowls. "Don't call me stupid."

"I only speak the truth."

"I only speak the truth," she repeats in a high-pitched voice, mocking mine. "My name is Persephone fucking Baines, and I'm better than all you losers! All in the world should bow down to my glory and my 160 IQ! I am the most beautiful princess ever, and I act like I'm perfect even though I'm just an insecure little girl who's scared of everything. I'm actually a closeted homosexual, if you haven't noticed, and I act like everyone loves me even though deep down inside I know that no one can actually stand to be near me, and the loneliness kills me inside so I just overcompensate by being an uptight, narcissistic bitch."

I turn around and stare at her smug, smiling, raccoon face.

"My IQ is 162, not 160," I say. "And I am not a closeted homosexual."

She laughs a bitter little laugh that makes my insides twist. "So that means I was right about everything else?"

"No. Everything else was simply you projecting your own insecurities onto me. It's something pathetic people tend to do."

We stare at each other for a few seconds before she, to my surprise, grabs me by the neck. "You wanna fight?" she asks, her voice all breathy. "Because I will fight you. And I will fucking tear you to shreds."

I wrench her hands from my throat, disgusted at the fact she's touched me. "You're not worth it. I'm leaving."

"Wait."

"What?"

"Haven't you always wanted to know about my family?" she asks quietly, even though there's no one around to overhear—only the hilly San Diego scenery. "What we're really involved in? I'll tell you," she says. "I'll tell you if you stay."

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a/n: this chapter is dedicated to _purpleprincesss_ for all the support and comments on this story! thank you so much <3

song for persephone: can't catch me - jessie woo (listen on spotify or by clicking on the youtube link in the header at the beginning of the chapter!)