My Dearest Enemy

4| my dreams die with him

❝Hope is the last thing a person does before they are defeated.❞

—Henry Rollins

F O U R 

Wind caressed my face and swept through my curls. I pedaled faster, drowning out the screeching brakes and honking horns of early morning traffic.

Months of work for six submissions. All six had ended in rejection. The final nail in the coffin had come in that morning.

The verdict was in. I didn't measure up. It sucked to think I'd just been chasing a pipe dream all these years, but really, who had I been kidding? The only people who'd ever seen my art were my parents, my brother and Mira. They'd done nothing but rave about my alleged talent. But what did they know? Now that my skill had been put to the test, their praise meant nothing.

I ramped up my speed, channeling my frustration into pedaling. Coasting down a small hill, the looming red-brick building of Lakewood High came into view. I was about to swing a left into the parking lot when headlights flashed in my vision. My heart stopped. A turning car harshly cut me off, forcing me to jam the brakes.

"What the fuck?"

As my heart restarted, I caught a brief glimpse of the driver — dark hair, fair skin, ringed fingers gripping the steering wheel — before the tires screeched and the car sped into the parking lot.

I stormed over to my locker, fuming.

"Whoa. Who pissed in your cereal?" Mira remarked upon seeing me.

I yanked my padlock open. "Some asshole nearly ran me off the road."

"Oh my God! Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," I grumbled, my books knocking against each other as I roughly shoved them aside. "As if my day couldn't suck any more..."

"Did something happen?"

I paused. Growing up, I used to talk about my art all the time with Mira and my brother, but slowly over the past year that had stopped. I attributed it to my art maturing from the childish, whimsical things I'd sketched as a happy-go-lucky teen. Now, my art meant something, said something. Things I wasn't always comfortable with other people hearing.

"I've been kinda submitting my work to magazines. To see if they were good enough to get published or something. Apparently, I'm oh-for-six."

She frowned, touching my arm. "Screw them. It's their loss."

A weak smile poked at my cheeks. "Thanks."

"Seriously though. I bet you it has nothing to do with your talent. Just the fact that you didn't match their typical clientele." She lifted her palm up and discreetly dragged her opposite finger over it.

I chuckled. "Yeah, you're probably right." Though I appreciated the speculation, it was the not knowing for sure that made the rejection more unbearable.

"Was that why you skipped out on a ride with me this morning?"

I dodged her pressing stare. "I preferred to bike 'cause I have a shift at the Yard later."

"Right...rather than take the bus there like you usually do."

"I needed some fresh air."

Her gaze momentarily drifted somewhere over my shoulder. "I just remembered I have to take care of something before homeroom so I'll catch up with you at lunch, kay?"

She sped off before I had a chance to reply.

"Hey."

I flinched as Eli materialized on my left.