Chapter 1

Words cannot describe the anguish and regret Victoria feels for her two years of service as an RA. Shackled by the relationships she developed during the period, she finds no rest, having inadvertently gained popularity amongst a few artistically geared minds. Although she remains cordial, they don't appear to care about her lack of interest in communicating, that she no longer holds the position, or that they've caught her in the middle of lunch.

Having heard rumors from her previous residents, the freshman hoard stalls her when she enters the canteen, demanding affirmation of their prematurely inflated egos. She recognizes them from the school newspaper and winces, mind bouncing from word to word, hardly clinging to any. One of them even brandishes a camera and mic. Their excitement is cute in a way, but cute won't win her favor.

With her limited media training, she breezes through the rapid-fire questions. Her answers are answers, curtailed no matter how much they pry.

Which art style is best?

"They all have their merits."

How can I improve on drawing manga?

"Draw more manga."

What do you think of So-and-So artist?

"They're alright. Not my taste, though."

Her most prolonged response thus far; most are monosyllabic if she can help it.

Will you take commissions for ten dollars?

"Absolutely not."

The only thing more irritating than disregarding her skills is when people disregard her efforts. Although she may now consider it a chore, art was once Victoria's passion, and she still holds the process to pious consideration.

"Y'all know me, right?" she asks, gaze dancing between them.

Only one dares to return her stare. A boy with a curly nest of hair nods. "I mean, I always see you sitting with someone in the dining hall."

"Great. So, did you happen to see him outside? It's very unlike Kit to be tardy." She tries glowering at the unassuming figures despite the guilt gnawing at her. "We got into a non-serious argument and his sorry ass blocked me, but we already scheduled lunch. He'd never cancel."

Another member of the Freshman Posse eagerly grabs her phone. "No, but I follow him on Instagram. I can try messaging him there."

How sweet and pathetic. Victoria hypothesizes a crush and inspects the girl. Physically, she's totally Kit's type, skinny and attractive in a dorky way with a wolf cut. She would stand a fighting chance if it weren't for her nasal voice and his stance on age gaps.

"Don't bother. He won't respond if he doesn't know you."

"Oh, well." The fluffy-haired boy's eyes gleam with a hopefulness only freshmen can muster. "Kit's that guy who's really into urban planning and design, right? If you're meeting him, could y'all review my art project? I really hated it 'cause I did it all last night, so I wanna know if it's alright before I turn it in."

Victoria can't help but wonder why an art major attends a school known for its engineering programs. She wouldn't have even considered attending her local university without the scholarships afforded to someone of her economic standing and academic prowess.

"It's not too late to transfer," she muses.

The boy blinks. "Uh, so, like I said, we had to illustrate a tree house, and it's not doing it for me." Already reaching into his bag, he pulls out a folded piece of paper. When unfurled, it's nearly as tall as him.

She implores him to stop, but Nest Hair continues babbling. Details enter one ear and promptly dance out the other. In no mood to entertain, Victoria brings her hands up to cover her face and deeply inhales.

Stifling her words, "Just do your project and forget about the details. It's your first year, so don't be worried if the quality of your work reflects that. It's also finals week, so Montana really won't care. She grades this project pretty easily, so you'll pass with a high B, low A," she summarises. She's able to get a decent comprehension of his style and composition, but given the partially unfinished state of the work, he must be a slacker. His work only suffers from laziness.

Upon finishing, Victoria winces. Her voice sounds harsher than intended, and her first clue-in is how their expressions falter. The group stands in an astonishing silence, stewing in their rot: her, in her degradation of morals, and the first-year students, at the downfall of their idol, who wears a stained, oversized sweater with yard-sale jeans and brandishes the nastiest attitude she's afforded to anyone.

"Asshole," the girl spits.

"Don't say that." Nest Hair hisses, jabbing her in the side with his elbow. "Victoria's an artistic genius. Those are eccentric, aren't they? Cut her some slack."

"Pff. Autistic, maybe."

For once, her hands go entirely still. Instead of running them over her face, over the fabric of her jeans, the fingers on her right hand curl into her palm. Victoria's nails press into her skin as she forms a fist. She is stiff as a board. Nest Hair stares in abject horror. They share the same thought: the nerve, the absolute nerve of that girl.

"You're the ones who came over and interrupted my lunch, then insulted me," she snaps. "So do me a favor and fuck off already."

Usually, there's an addicting sensation found in having careful admiration, but this group soils the sensation. Give an inch, and they'll take a mile; she'll take a stand against the only people whose egos falter in her presence.

Staring at one another, the freshmen pale. They're more irritated than fearful as they scamper. Victoria can't help but feel a twinge of guilt. While they're like Chihuahuas — easily excitable, loud, somewhat cute, and annoying — she knows it's not her they seek. Outside of her small circle of friends, everyone knows her as Milan's friend, The Artist, the painter who uses vivid colors and intense imagery. While Milan is fashionable and lives up to her name, Victoria is like her bold and brash statement piece.

It doesn't help that she has also yet to live down to the shameful act of combining her passion and friend during an era she calls her Sell-Out Period. It began when she assembled a portrait of Milan; her scholarship was very conditional, and one obligation was to produce an annual collection for the student galleries and charity events. Sophomore year was catastrophic, and by March, Victoria had only made seven paintings, one carving, a beautiful clay pot, and a scattering of photographs from an impromptu trip to Belize.

Since it was to visit her father's parents, her sickly grandparents, the latter had been anything but fun. She fell behind in several classes and prioritized completing the work, catching up on commissions from her online business, and lastly, art. When the deadline approached and she still needed one more portrait, she begged everyone to model in a desperate appeal, and only Milan pulled through. She completed the piece in two weeks, a canvas larger than life with an exuberant paint bill that its sale covered in tenfold.