Mia's pen hovered above the untouched canvas of her sketchbook, her fingers twitching with a controlled kind of anticipation. Around her, the art room buzzed with quiet concentration: the soft scratch of pencils, the occasional rustle of paper, the faint, ambient hum of an ancient radiator groaning to life in the corner. Professor Albright droned from the front of the room, something about chiaroscuro and the emotional weight of light and shadow, but Mia barely heard him.
Her mind was elsewhere.
More specifically, it was still glitter-coated, thanks to Kris Windsor.
The ambush had been classic Kris—flamboyant, petty, and infuriatingly well-timed. Her locker had exploded in a shimmer bomb of pink and silver this morning, the sparkles catching in her hair, her clothes, her lashes. Even after a full wash in the girl's bathroom and a frantic sweep with a lint roller, she still looked like a discount disco ball under the classroom lights.
James, sketching diligently beside her, had raised a single eyebrow when he'd seen her marching in late, shimmering and seething. He hadn't needed to ask who was responsible. Instead, he'd leaned in with a calm, practiced sigh and muttered, "Please don't start a glitter war. We're too old for this."
"Don't worry," Mia had whispered back, eyes already narrowing with dark intent. "This isn't war. This is art."
Now, seated with her sketchpad open and her vengeance simmering just beneath her calm exterior, she felt the first real flickers of satisfaction. Not from rage. Not even from the idea of getting even. No—what she felt now was focus. The kind that came from having an idea so sharp, so precise, it cut through every distraction.
The idea had struck her like lightning halfway through Albright's lecture on Renaissance shadow work. A monkey. A very specific monkey.
She began to sketch with swift, confident strokes, blocking out the basic composition with the ease of someone who'd long since mastered anatomy and proportion. But this wasn't a study in realism—it was a satire in the making.
First, the motorcycle.
Not just any bike, but the bike—Kris's pride and joy. His midnight-black Ducati, complete with its signature twin exhausts and angular, almost aggressive frame. She shaded it meticulously, blending charcoal greys and inky blacks, letting the mechanical bulk of it take center stage.
And then came the rider.
The monkey.
She grinned, lips curling into a quiet, wicked smile as she outlined the simian figure. Broad shoulders, puffed chest, long arms draped with casual arrogance over the handlebars. She gave the monkey slicked-back fur under a jet-black helmet, the same style Kris always wore—perfectly molded to the ego it contained. She drew a sharp leather jacket next, complete with zippered sleeves and the smallest hint of a gold "K" charm on the zipper pull. It was detailed, layered, unmistakable.
Next came the shoes—bright white, spotless sneakers, the kind Kris treated like sacred relics. She added a tiny speck of dirt to one toe, just to see if her subconscious would flinch. It didn't. She was in too deep.
The finishing touch: sunglasses. Thick, mirrored lenses that obscured the monkey's eyes but still radiated smug, untouchable energy. And the mouth—a slight, sideways smirk that oozed self-importance. She tilted the head just enough to give the illusion of looking down on the viewer.
It was him. Not by name, not by legal likeness, but oh, it was him.
It was art. Open to interpretation, of course.
She titled it at the top in careful, looping cursive:"The Primate Prince of Asphalt."
James finally looked over, his pencil pausing mid-stroke as his eyes scanned her page. At first, he didn't say anything. Then his lips parted slightly in disbelief.
"Oh no," he murmured. "You didn't."
Mia glanced at him, feigning innocence. "Didn't what?"
James stared at the monkey on the motorcycle for a long moment. "You... turned Kris into a monkey. A smug, biker monkey. With his sneakers."
"Art imitates life," she replied coolly, already darkening the shadows beneath the wheels with a flourish of graphite.
James leaned in closer, lowering his voice. "You do realize this could start something, right? You're provoking the chaos god."
She shrugged, still smiling. "Let him come. I'm just a humble artist expressing herself through satire and animal symbolism."
James groaned, scrubbing a hand over his face. "Albright's going to hang this on the display wall, isn't he?"
"With any luck," Mia said, sitting back and admiring her work. "Centerpiece."
As the bell rang and students began to pack up, Mia felt lighter than she had all day. She tucked the sketch carefully into her portfolio, ignoring the faint glitter still embedded in the creases of her sweater.
She might not win the war with brute force. But in the gallery of psychological warfare?She was a master.