You're a Masterpiece (BOOK 1)

An Introduction to Art Mendoza

THE SCHOOL YEAR OF 2017

It wasn't Art's first time in the Principal's office, but they still couldn't stand how quiet it was. It was always like this—the air felt clean and prim, filtered thoroughly because Ms. Bardugo was a neat freak. And the atmosphere felt... harsh... as if it Art was here for a police investigation instead of a school level confrontation.

Art drummed their fingers on their knee and tried not to chew their bottom lip as the heavy silence settled onto their shoulders. It was even more unbearable when Art remembered that their Mom was being called over.

It could be worse, they supposed. The school could have called Mama which would have prompted the fucking Devil himself to split the Earth in two just to make fun of Art in all his demonic glory.

The Principal—good afternoon, Mr. Joshua Bardugo—stared them down through narrow, gold-framed reading glasses and laced fingers.

"This could have been resolved easily," he grumbled, pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, "if you apologized."

Art frowned. "No fucking way."

"Mendoza," he said warningly.

"I'm not apologizing."

Mr. Bardugo rolled his eyes. Art rolled theirs right back and debated what would happen if they gave him a piece of their fucking mind, too. First of all, Art had a lot to say about how absurd this whole situation was. Second, Art wanted to remind him that they were truly, dearly unapologetic for cursing the fuck out of Ms. Leyva as they reiterated the first time they were ushered here.

They were just about to open their mouth and say more things that would have landed them into a deeper pile of shit... when Art heard the familiar rhythm of their Mom's footsteps on the harsh, marble tiles of the school floor. They took a steadying breath in as they called upon all the angels and saints to hold their hand as the door to the Principal's office swung open.

No, noooo—

It wasn't their Mom who opened the door. It was both Mom and Mama.

Art felt themself blush from their cheeks down to their neck.

Jesus Christ.

Mom looked prim and proper: with her red lips and quickly done eye shadow, loose white shirt tucked into ankle jeans. Art noted that her hands were still flecked with paint and she wasn't wearing any of her flashy, unceremonious jewelry. On the other hand, Mama was still in her Ateneo swim team jacket with a whistle around her neck, smelling like chlorine with her hair in a tight bun. (Oh, so she was fresh from coaching.)

Mama met Art's eyes. You're dead.

Art weakly held up a peace sign and grit their teeth together. Please do not disown me.

"Mrs. Mendoza," Mr. Bardugo greeted and stood up to shake their hands. (Art would have made a deal with the fucking Devil than go through this.)

Mom gave Art a withering, death-inducing glare.

Art shrugged.

"What did Art do?" Mom asked, skipping the formalities as she sat across from Art. They winced at the way her eyes narrowed. (They weren't sure if they should tell her about her lipstick-stained teeth.)

"Can I explain?" they spoke before Mr. Bardugo opened his damned mouth.

Mama raised her eyebrows at them. "Art," she threatened. The way Art's name rolled in her mouth made them shudder. Their name sounded like a threat and a promise... as most things were with Mama. Their one syllable name tightened in Mama's mouth before it snapped, and then came bearing down like the crack of a whip.