BROOKE'S GRADES WERE STARTING TO SLIP, AND SHE TRIED TO PRETEND IT WASN'T BECAUSE HER ENTIRE LIFE WAS CONSUMED BY THE ART PROJECT. In a shocking turn of events, Liz was the one who was forced to convince her to go to sleep and not stay up too late doing something for the school that wouldn't affect her grades. The senior often had to take Brooke's art supplies and lock them in her room until the morning, either forcing her to get started on her actual schoolwork or to go to sleep.

"I know you're not as academically inclined, but that doesn't mean you shouldn't try," Liz sighed, as she pushed Brooke towards her math class for after school tutoring.

"But Liz, I only got two put up this week, and I set aside nine initially, I don't want people to think I'm slacking—" Brooke argued, but Liz shushed her, pressing her hand against her mouth.

"Brooke," the older girl said slowly, looking her right in the eye, "Take it from someone who knows. I get that you want to get everything done, that you don't want people to think that you can't do it, that you're lazy or all these other stereotypes they place on you, but you need to think of yourself first. Your grades determine if you even graduate, think about that before applying to college, okay?"

Brooke pushed her sister's hand away, adjusting her backpack. "You're the one worried about college. Not me."

With that, she walked into the classroom and took a seat, ignoring the sinking feeling in her stomach that she had pushed away someone she had wanted to stop drifting.

But the mention of college sent a shiver down her spine for no reason other than she went to an science-focused school that her parents spent a fortune on, and was planning on going into the arts later in life. Of course, she still had to bring that up with her parents, the people who were planning on paying for her education, but the point still stood that everything about this felt incredibly wrong.

"Brooke, are you here for tutoring?" her teacher asked, walking over towards her.

Brooke took a deep breath and sighed. "I guess so."

º º º

"We looked at your grades."

Brooke practically ran to her room, locking her door behind her, muffling the sound of her mother calling after her, demanding to discuss the steady decline that could be seen, the buildup of all the work that Brooke hadn't been doing; it had only been a week, but most of her classes had dropped drastically.

"Doris, don't yell at her, she won't listen to you," her father argued from the living room, his mother scoffing at his words.

Gritting her teeth, Brooke grabbed her phone and headphones, blasting her music into her ears and throwing herself onto her bed, burying her face in her pillow, because the last thing she heard before she drowned out the argument was, 'Liz.'

Liz. She hated that she felt a spark of rage at the very mention of her sister, especially when it came from her mother. She loved her sister, but with the way things were going, it was a surprise she didn't loathe her as much as it seemed she did.

It was like overplayed songs on the radio. The music was good for a reason, but once it was overplayed, there was nothing but irrational fury and disgust left for it, and Liz was the overplayed song in the car ride of Brooke's life.

In a burst of spite, she grabbed her backpack and laptop, going over every assignment she had neglected to turn in the past few days, ripping through them with all the ferocity that could be found in Liz during finals week; if they wanted Liz, they were going to get her, if only to prove that Brooke was just as perfect.

It took her about two hours, and when she was finished, she threw all her books at the wall, jumping to her feet, breathing heavily as she ran her hands through her hair. She could still feel the anger bubbling over and spilling across all her edges, oozing out of her fingers and her toes, pooled in her stomach and pounded against her temples, consuming her in an encasing of pure rage.

She needed to get this out.

She had seen vent artwork online before, but she had never quite understood how they had managed to do it without calming down in some capacity, yet there she was, grabbing her most recent sketchbook and nearly tearing through the page in her rage, calming down as she drew, not needing to calm down beforehand, gripping her pencil so tightly that it her hand was cramping and her fingers ached.

With a sharp sigh, she finished, letting the pencil fall from her hand as she stared down at what she had done, now completely calm, and coming out of her haze, she realized that she had been completely aware of what she had been doing while in the moment, but the second she snapped back into focus, she forgot everything, staring at her piece with fresh, confused eyes.

She didn't dare look at the clock to see how much time she had lost while making this.

She had drawn an anatomically incorrect outline of a body made up of various connecting roads and paths, some exiting the fingers and toes and hair leading to various locations outside of the body, while other roads led to locations within the body, everything intertwining and connecting, with bumps and detours and problems, but everything needed to be there, and there were nicer cars placed around, looking shiny and new and better, some next to the plain looking car, others placed next to certain important markings, but they were all on other roads that weren't a part of the body.

Because this was the car ride of her life, not anyone else's.

º º º

Liz pulled out the key that they used for emergencies, unlocking Brooke's door and peering in, tentative and almost afraid; she would be the first to admit that she had put Brooke to the side in favor of her various responsibilities, among other things, and she could barely remember the last time she had been in her room for a reason other than to take her art supplies and force her to sleep.

Rather hypocritical considering her own self.

She stepped inside and found Brooke asleep, slumped over her sketchbook, her notebooks and textbooks strewn about the floor, open and dented, the wall marked, as if she had thrown something at it.

She sighed and walked over to the notebooks and the textbooks, scanning over the homework that Brooke had done. Her mother had made a list of Brooke's unfinished assignments, and while it seemed like she had done most of it, Liz figured she could stay up a little later and do the rest for her, especially since Brooke's handwriting wasn't too hard to copy.

She looked over towards her sleeping sister, still in her outside clothes and on top of her covers, and sighed softly, glancing over to her closet. The things she did sometimes.

When she finally got Brooke changed into her pajamas and under her covers, she set aside her sketchbook, taking extra care not to look at what she had drawn, organizing all her art supplies that were strewn about before taking her sister's books and going back to her room.

By the time she had finished doing Brooke's work, it was already too late for her to go to sleep, so she just snuck into the kitchen and made cookies. Of course, when that was finished, she had to clean up, which then led to her cleaning the entire kitchen before going back to her room to get a head start on her other homework, only stopping when she became stuck on problems she hadn't yet been taught, settling into her bed and watching half an episode of a show she had been told to watch before her alarm went off, signaling that she had to go to get ready for school.

Just another night for Liz Allan, it seemed, but at least her sister got to rest.

Unbeknownst to her, however, Brooke had woken up after Liz had left her room and had stayed up the rest of the night listening to her work around the house, feeling the need to be productive, not only due to competition, but to guilt, as she had found her notebooks missing from where she had left them on the ground.

So she grabbed her sketchbook and began to plot out the next painting, one that she had been on the fence about for so long, her eyes always drawn to the familiar neat handwriting she had been subjected to adore all her life.

I WISH I COULD BE JUST AS CAREFREE AS HER. MAYBE THEN I'D BE ABLE TO KISS HER

Brooke had to be impartial about these paintings, she couldn't just pick and choose because of the handwriting she recognized, she had to solely focus on the confession and what she could do with it, which was the case for a certain number of papers, though she would be lying if she said she was afraid to get immersed into this one.

The idea of being immersed in something her sister had written, something that she had no idea what could possibly mean, felt violating, not only for Liz, but for herself; it didn't feel right to ride in the car of someone else's life.

Yet she got to work regardless, wanting to try something new and hoping that she would be able to translate it well onto the canvas, or even onto paper.

Her plan was to make it seem like a photograph, the "camera" being on the inside of a car, the background blurred and out of focus, but clearly depicting an incoming city at night, the lights multicolored on account of the way the camera captured the scene, the only true aspect of the painting that was in focus being the faint outline of lips, like the had been pressed against glass.

It was incredibly ambitious and would take her a lot of time to perfect, but she felt as though the only way to do the confession any sort of justice was to make that particular painting, so she sketched out the compositional design, plotted out key aspects, and set off to work on the painting she had begun most recently, listening as Liz finished cleaning the kitchen and headed back to her room.

She had been working on one of the happier confessions, having needed something happier after putting up the confession about the books—it had been one of her more subtle works, and she had a great deal of fun coming up with book titles that got the main point across—and the confession about the chocolate, which had involved her looking up multiple references of bathrooms and candy bars, choosing to settle on the third slip of paper.

I LOVE COOKING WITH MY MOM, BECAUSE IT MAKES HER HAPPY AND THAT MAKES ME HAPPY

She wished she could have related to that sentiment, she really did. So she immersed herself in the feeling, relishing the way her heart soared and her lips toyed with a smile, despite her furrowed eyebrows, as if she herself ever cooked with her mother, relishing in the phantom feeling.

She used pinks and reds for this painting, and it was much less realistic than other pieces she did, placing the camera at an angle as if someone were looking down at a countertop full of food, some actual meals, others desserts, all of them themed around hearts in some way, whether it be heart-shaped meatballs or a heart-shaped cake with heart sprinkles. It was rather kitschy, but it worked with the confession, so she was happy to keep it that way.

Whomever this person was, she was happy for them.

º º º

Liz and Brooke trudged through the day, the two having gotten to school extra early, being driven by one of Liz's friends who had early practice, Brooke hanging up her painting before anyone could see her. Once she reached her short goal of getting it hung up, however, she immediately shut down, going through the motions of turning in her missed assignments and nearly falling asleep, surprised by how well Liz had forged her handwriting.

The older girl hadn't spoken to her at all that day, running off of the Venti coffee she had gotten from Starbucks—Brooke only got a tall because she took forever to drink coffee, but she always loved the idea of Venti's—but still incredibly out of it.

What snapped Brooke out of her daze, however, were the comments she heard being said around the wall.

"This is so cute," someone cooed, pointing to the newest one, "I like that they're not just using all sad ones, like I love this. Who do you think did it?"

"I don't wanna know," their friend said, "It'll ruin it. Oh, wait, the seasoning on the pasta's made of hearts, that's so clever."

Brooke's heart fluttered at the praise, and she had to fight back a smile as she listened to the people talking, dawdling in the hallway to keep listening; hearing people compliment her without knowing it was her, was the best feeling in the world, because they meant it completely.

She had to go back to class, because this was a school and that was something they actually had to do, but she decided to pass by the hallway during lunch to see if people had dropped some slips of paper into the box; she wouldn't be able to work on any of them until she was done with the first nine—or eight, she wasn't sure she wanted to rush through Liz's confession—but she just wanted to see if it was still relevant.

She was rounding the corner when she heard a gasp.

"Dude! Dude, look, that's the one that I put in!'

Brooke paused by a locker, peering around to look in, not wanting to intrude and have him be quiet.

Standing there were two boys whom she vaguely recognized from Liz's decathlon team, the smaller of the pair pointing eagerly towards the most recent painting she had done, his entire being radiating excitement.

"Aw, that's awesome!" his friend chimed, peering close to read the confession underneath, his voice softening, "That's really nice, man."

"Thanks," the boy said, with a voice that was so simply happy that Brooke couldn't help but smile, "I didn't really have anything really sad to say, so I thought it'd be cool to say something happy. And look, it's amazing! There are hearts everywhere and all the food. I wish they knew who I was, though, since we usually make traditional food."

"Filipino mom and Hawaiian dad," the other boy hummed, nudging him, "Good job on calling them out in History, by the way, it was great."

"Immigrants are a thing, there were Filipinos stationed in Hawaii, that's why the second most spoken language is Tagalog, which, yeah, sucks because the native language should be second, but that's not really anyone's fault, right, we just live there!"

The boy's voice faded away as the two continued down the hall, leaving the board behind them, and Brooke finally chose to step out, watching them go. She wished she had gotten a good look at them or heard their names, because, if she was being honest, she wanted to talk to the boy who had been so happy to see his confession being put up.

He sounded like someone she could actually enjoy being around.

But with nothing to go on, she just headed down to the art room, deciding to work on her homework and plan out at least one of the paintings she had to get done. She would find that boy again eventually.

But until then, she just continued to drive.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

( 05.12.18 )

So, I'm going to be doing quite a few time skips solely because Liz's party takes place on September 11, a Wednesday in the canon (and what I did in Lonely Hearts, which ties in to this, so you know) and I'm also going to have it so that the time that Peter spends not being Spider-Man is longer than the week that is shown in Homecoming, because Liz says that it had only been a week, but that doesn't give Brooke and Ned as much time as I want so...yeah, we're tweaking that, which'll be fine, though Lonely Hearts didn't change that up but...whatever, we'll be fine.

Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed!