𝐖𝐡𝐨 𝐫𝐮𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫? - 𝐓𝐌𝐑 𝐀𝐔, 𝐌𝐢𝐧𝐡𝐨

023 - Art + Astrid = bad combo

"Whitley!"

I get pulled into Sonya's arms immediately, and she squeezes me tightly.

"Ow," I murmur into her shoulder.

Hearing that, she pulls back. "Sorry, sorry! Are you okay? What happened? Why is there a giant bandage on your side?"

I put my hands up, signalling for her to stop. "Woah, woah. That's a lot of questions. I don't remember much of what happened, but I think I got stabbed."

A loud gasp escapes her, and she looks at me as if I'm crazy. "What? You got stabbed?"

In response, all I do is nod.

Sonya opens her mouth to reply, but gets interrupted as Astrid grabs my arm extremely tight.

"Come on," she grumbles, dragging me towards what I assume is our art station. "We have to win."

"Win what?"

"The competition, obviously."

"Oh, right."

She rolls her eyes, grabbing paint.

"What's the competition?" I ask.

"God, could you stop asking questions for once?" She spits, irritation clear in her voice. "It's really annoying."

She sounds like my mother.

Swallowing, I say, "Sorry."

She shakes her head. "You better be."

"Hello, everyone!" The teacher greets us all. "My name is Joanne, and I'm going to be teaching Art during camp."

(A/N: I wrote this a while ago, but now I'm thinking of Johanna from thg even though their names are different, wtf)

We all nod, listening impatiently.

"We have a challenge today, just to see how good each pair's skills are," she explains. "As I said earlier. Does anyone have any questions?"

Two hands shoot up—mine and Minho's. Joanne picks Minho first.

He clears his throat. "Whitley literally got stabbed. Do you think it's a good idea if she does this?"

I blush at his care.

"You got stabbed?" Joanne looks over at me.

I nod, pulling up my shirt to expose the wound.

She thinks for a moment. "Do you want to do it? Does it hurt?"

I shrug. "It doesn't really hurt, and I don't mind. It could be good if I do it."

Please say I don't have to participate, please say I don't have to participate.

"Alright then." She nods. "I guess you will be doing it."

Dammit. Well, it was my fault; I made it seem like I wanted to. 

I raise my hand again, waiting for her to call me on before I speak. "What is the challenge? I wasn't here when you explained it."

She nods. "Alright, so each pair will receive a shirt, and you need to paint a design of your choice on the shirt. It should include something—or several things—that represent you, whether that's aspects of your personality, your hobbies, your culture, or anything else meaningful. Just make sure it truly reflects who you are."

"You better listen to my ideas," Astrid orders, speaking low enough so only I can hear.

"We're doing this together," I snap. "So don't tell me what to do. Or maybe I'll be the one sending your nudes to the island."

She groans, allowing me to turn back to Joanne and listen.

"After you've painted your designs, I will judge them based on four categories: originality, skills, use of colours, and presentation. Is there anything else you wanted to ask?"

I nod in response.

"Alright then." Joanne claps her hands together. "Go get your paint, and I'll give each pair a shirt. Then go crazy!"

Astrid pushes past me and grabs paint. I let her; she can do as much work as she wants, I don't care.

Once she's back, the shirts get handed around, and the competition starts.

"What are we doing on the shirt?" I ask.

"I want to do a quote," Astrid says. "One of my own."

"Okay, what about a picture?"

"You can decide that."

I watch as Astrid writes her 'quote' down, and as soon as I see it, my face pales.

How do you like her now?

I look up at her, and am met with her smirking face.

"Astrid." I take a deep breath. "What the—"

She interrupts me by placing her finger on my lips. "Hush. I think it's a pretty good quote of mine. Give me great flashbacks."

"It gives me horrible ones," I mutter through her finger.

Astrid's eyes light up as she turns back towards the shirt. "Oh! I have an idea for the picture?"

This isn't going to be good.

I cock my head at her. "What is it?"

"The pictures you sent to me!" She practically yells the words, and the whole group turns to us, knowing what she's talking about.

"I didn't send you anything," I snap, my jaw clenching.

Astrid nods mockingly. "Yeah, and I'm a murderer."

"You could be," Braedyn comments from his art station. "The truth is, we don't know who sent the photo."

"I know Ley wouldn't do that." Minho shakes his head. "It wasn't her who took the photo."

"I believe you," Braedyn says. "But she could be lying."

"Everyone, get back to painting your shirts," Joanne commands, annoyed at how we're going off–track.

I hear a few mutter sorrys, but I don't say one myself.

I start to paint a picture on the shirt, and I've decided on a bookshelf; I love reading books.

As I paint, I steal glances at the girl next to me. The one that hates me even though I did nothing wrong.

I study the way her wavy blonde hair meets with her slightly tanned skin. The way her brown eyes look carefully at the shirt as she paints. She reminds me of someone I know. Or knew.

As she looks up, meeting my eye, I inhale sharply and continue painting as if nothing happened.

I want to know so badly where I know her from. But I don't want to ask her. She hates me. But why?

Why invent someone's mistakes if they're innocent?

Why ruin someone's life when they don't deserve it?

Why falsely accuse someone if they're blameless?

Why hate someone if they've done nothing wrong?

I'm innocent.

I don't deserve it.

I'm blameless.

And I did nothing wrong.