“WHOA, PICASSO,” HILARIE said when she gazed upon Jessica’s canvas.
Jessica puffed out her chest at her artwork, which showed Ophelia floating on the river, surrounded by blooming flowers. She had managed to get every detail perfect: the mixture of red and gold in Ophelia’s hair, the serene expression on her face, the shadows the flowers left on the bottom of the river, the sparkle of the crystal-clear water. “I know. If I don’t get an A-plus on this, I’m going to cut a bitch.”
“You should be an artist.” Hilarie looked at her ordinary still-life of a bowl of fruit, which seemed even blander next to Jessica’s masterpiece.
Jessica cackled. “Die a young alcoholic with one ear because I gave the other one to some gigolo? No thanks. I’ll rather be the next Hillary Clinton, minus the philande
