In the Gallery of Our Scars

The fluorescent lights in the Westwood Prep gallery hummed overhead as I smoothed out my dress for the hundredth time. Secondhand, five bucks at a thrift store on Columbus Avenue, but it was the nicest thing I owned.

Around me, parents in designer clothes sipped champagne and nibbled on fancy canapés with names I couldn't even pronounce.

My 3D sculpture, Breaking Free, gleamed under the spotlight—recycled metal scraps and broken glass pieced together into a bird taking flight. Three months of work. All my hopes.

"Olivia."

I turned to see Mom standing in the doorway. Still in her cleaning uniform, hair disheveled. My heart sank.

"Mom, you came." I hurried over.

She took a step back, shaking her head. "I can't stay long, baby. I just wanted to see..." She looked at my sculpture, eyes glistening. "It's beautiful."

"Please stay."

"I don't belong here." She glanced around at the women in Chanel and Gucci. "But you do. You're an artist."

She kissed my cheek and disappeared into the night. I stood there, fighting back tears.

"That's the scholarship girl."

Whispers drifted from behind me. I pretended not to hear, picking up an exhibition catalog.

Then my world collapsed.

In the catalog, my artist statement—the one I'd spent a week writing, about poverty and freedom—was printed under Mia Peterson's mediocre oil painting. And Mia's typo-riddled, shallow statement now hung under my work.

"Excuse me, is this your piece?" A woman in pearls pointed at my sculpture, frowning at the catalog. "'Art is, like, super important because it makes things pretty'?" She read Mia's statement aloud, voice dripping with disdain. "This is the level of artist statements now?"

My face burned. "No, that's not—there's been a mistake—"

But she'd already walked away, shaking her head to her friend.

"Oh my God, Olivia!"

Mia Peterson glided over, heels clicking on the floor. Golden curls perfect, makeup flawless. "I'm SO sorry about the catalog mix-up. But honestly..." She lowered her voice, feigning sympathy. "Maybe it's a sign? Like, maybe art school isn't really for you?"

My fists clenched. "Stay away from me."

"Relax, I'm just trying to help—"

CRASH!

The sound of impact.

My sculpture toppled, metal and glass exploding across the marble floor.

Time froze.

All conversation ceased. All eyes turned to me.

I stood frozen, watching three months of work reduced to rubble. The bird that symbolized freedom, now just twisted metal and shattered glass.

Tears blurred my vision.

Through the blur of faces, I saw Mia turn away, a smile playing at her lips.

"Oh dear." Dean Whitmore walked over, dabbing his nose with a handkerchief. "Miss Martinez, we'll need to look into this. Your sculpture's base... unstable?"

"No—" My voice cracked. "Someone pushed—"

"Now, now, let's not make accusations without evidence." He patted my shoulder, the force making me step back. "These things happen when students attempt ambitious projects without proper... resources."

His meaning was clear: poor kids don't belong in art.

I crouched down and started picking up pieces, fingers sliced by glass. Blood and tears dripped onto the metal.

"Hey."

A guy knelt beside me. Ripped jeans, black leather jacket, messy hair. He started helping me gather the fragments.

"Maybe it's performance art about destruction?" he drawled, amusement in his voice. "You know, like, a statement on the fragility of dreams or whatever?"

He was mocking me.

Of course everyone was mocking me.

I spotted a half-full cup on the table. Red. Cranberry juice.

I grabbed it.

"Leave me alone!"

I threw the juice. It hit him square in the face.

Red liquid dripped down his nose, his chin, onto his expensive leather jacket.

The entire gallery fell silent again.

He stood slowly, wiping juice from his face. I saw his eyes for the first time—deep brown, holding an emotion I couldn't read. Not anger. Something... hurt?

"I was trying to help," he said quietly.

Then he turned and left, juice still dripping from his clothes.

"Olivia!" Mr. Harrison rushed over, my art teacher, the only one who truly cared. "Are you okay?"

I shook my head. I wasn't okay. I would never be okay.

"Come on, baby."

Mom had returned, her arm around my shoulders. "Let's go home."

As we left, I saw Mia leaning against the wall, making an L with her fingers—loser.

Her friends were laughing.

The apartment above the laundromat hummed with the sound of washing machines all night. Mom made me tea, but I didn't touch it.

I lay in bed, staring at the water stain on the ceiling.

My phone buzzed on the nightstand.

Buzzed again.

And again.

I picked it up.

My Instagram was blowing up.

Someone had created an anonymous account: @WestwoodTruth

The latest post showed my destroyed sculpture, fragments on the ground, me kneeling in the middle, crying.

When scholarship trash tries art

200 likes.

50 comments.

I opened the comments. Each one cut like a knife:

[She doesn't belong at Westwood]

[She probably broke it herself for attention]

[Her mom's literally a janitor lmao]

[Art college? More like art fail]

My vision blurred. Tears splashed onto the screen.

Enough.

I turned off my phone and threw it to the foot of the bed.

Couldn't look anymore.

I buried my face in the pillow, letting the rumble of washing machines drown out everything.

The weekend dragged on like a nightmare.

I kept my phone off, refused to turn it on.

Saturday, Mom worked double shifts. I stayed alone in the empty apartment, trying to draw.

But every time I picked up a pencil, I saw the wreckage. Twisted metal. Broken glass. Mia's smile.

I couldn't draw anything.

Sunday afternoon, Mom came home with fried rice from the Chinese restaurant—our "luxury."

"Eat something, baby."

"I'm not hungry."

"Olivia." Her voice was stern. "You can't stop living because of those assholes."

I looked at her tired face, her rough hands.

She'd given up everything for me.

I picked up chopsticks. "Sorry."

She stroked my hair. "Don't apologize. Just don't give up."

"I won't."

Monday morning, I put on my uniform.

The girl in the mirror looked exhausted, but determined.

Mom waited by the door. "Remember—"

"I know. Head up. Don't let them see me cry."

She smiled, tears in her eyes. "That's my girl."

The bus came. I got on, sat in the back.

Outside, Boston woke up in the morning light.

I took a deep breath.

Friday's nightmare was over.

Those photos, those comments—I'd survived them.

Today would be better.

It had to be.

I had no idea—

Everything was about to get so much worse.