Portrait of a Spoiled Girl {Galaxy

Galaxy Exsaedia

Dreams, I have dreams,
When I'm awake when I'm asleep.

I wake up knowing exactly what day it is. Today is the day that, due to the resounding success of my gallery, I am starting work on my first paid picture. It's a portrait, which is really basic, but everyone has to start somewhere, right? And I need the money. I'm still living under Mom and Dad's roof, and they'd be happy to keep me here forever, but I'm eighteen now. If I don't want to be a loser, I'm going to have to move out before my next birthday. Half my friends have their own apartments already. Granted, theirs are paid for by their parents, but whatever. When I leave the nest, I want to really be leaving. No financial support whatsoever.

So it would be nice to have some money of my own before I leave. I'm pretty good at painting, and though I started the hobby without any intention of turning it into a career, I can now picture it very vividly in my head. I will have my own studio, and my apartment will be filled with pictures of my own creation. People will come from all over the Capitol to get me to paint them something. Maybe even the President himself! Okay, yeah, I know I'm a big dreamer. But somebody has to dream big, right? Nothing would be interesting if everyone aspired to be just a regular Joe doing regular Joe things. Somebody has to be extraordinary. And if that somebody is me, then I'm not complaining.

I vault out of bed and throw on some clothes. I'm about to head down for breakfast when I remember to look in the mirror. And it's a good thing I do! I can't possibly let the world see me like this. I pause to brush my hair, which is newly streaked with blue, and spend a good twenty minutes on my make-up. Then I wipe it all off and try again. The shade of my eyeshadow wasn't quite right. After that's fixed, I take a good look at my hair and decide that what I really need is to straighten it again, because it's starting to curl at the bottom and it just looks gross. Half an hour later, I grace the dining room with my presence.

Dad's already off at work, and a note from Mom I find at the table informs me that she's off with friends. She probably doesn't even remember what today is. Mom and Dad aren't exactly supportive about my artistic career. They pretend they are, but I can tell that they don't think it's a good idea. I asked them to help me arrange the gallery, since Dad has his connections. They agreed, but they weren't too enthused. Most of my paintings that day were older ones. The darker ones that come from somewhere deep inside me, a place I know nothing about. They show a world that scares me, one that has cruelty and heartbreak, and destruction. I don't want to believe that a world like that exists anywhere, and certainly not here in Panem. I was a bit reluctant to even show them to anyone, but one of my friends convinced me to put them in.

Some of my newer paintings made it into the gallery too, of course. Paintings of the wonderful restaurant I'd been to with Derick Nashont, the one with aquariums for walls. It was so beautiful there, I've been meaning to go back. I haven't had a chance, though. My friends never want to try anything new. They like to go to the same old places and order the same things every time. They're always surprised that I don't order the exact same thing that I did lest time we went to a certain restaurant. They just don't understand that I like the adventure of new things.

I even managed to sneak in some really new paintings, the ones I made just a month ago upon our return from the arena of the 56th Hunger Games. The trip had been a dream. I'd pulled out my paint set the second we returned home, even before my bags had been brought in. I was so worried that no one would like my paintings, but apparently someone did. I've had two requests for portraits, the first of which I'm doing today. There was someone else who wanted to purchase one of my dark pictures. I let them buy it, since it had never been one of my favorites. So now I guess I just wait for my talent to get spread by word of mouth.

After wolfing down my breakfast, I head up to the small room Mom and Dad have allowed me for my studio. It's not very big, only about the size of my walk-in closet. I can walk from one side to the other in five steps. But there's still plenty of room for my art supplies and all my paintings that don't have homes elsewhere in our mansion. There's even a window, so I get natural lighting. I set up the easel for the portrait, and get my paints handy so I won't have to waste time digging around for them. I even remember to drag a wooden chair in from another room on the floor so my client will have somewhere to sit.

And then the doorbell rang. I swear I jumped three feet into the air. I race down the stairs so I can get to the door faster, then slow down, realizing that I probably don't want to appear too excited. I smooth the wrinkles out of my aqua colored shirt, and tug at my cotton shorts. Before answering the door, I pause at the hall mirror to make sure I don't have any pieces of my breakfast stuck on my teeth. I don't. I do a fast walk to the door and yank it open.

A woman is standing there with who I can only assume is her daughter, the one I'll be doing a portrait of. "Mrs. Jacquez, please come in!" I pull the door open wide and usher them in. There's seats here in the entry, but I don't motion for us to take a seat. We won't be in here long enough for it to be worth sitting down. When this woman contacted to me to do a portrait of her daughter, I was picturing some whiny pre-teen that would sit there and complain while I did my best to make her beautiful. But this girl is probably the same age as me, if not older. And she's pretty. Judging by her face, she's been under the knife at least once. I haven't, and that's something I'm proud of. I think I'm pretty how I am, with the exception of my hair, which curls horrendously if I don't do anything to it, and my nose, which is kind of large and strangely shaped, not to mention my eyebrows, which look really terrible if I don't get them waxed, and my glass eye attracts way too much attention, and- Okay, never mind. I'm ugly, and I should probably wear a bag on my head for the rest of my life.

"So, this is July?" I ask, even though I already know. I don't wait for her to answer before I continue. "Will you be staying through today's sitting, Mrs. Jacquez? Or will just be July and me today?" I could stop there, but of course I don't. Because I'm excited, and I'm hyper, and when I'm like this, I wish you good luck trying to shut me up. "I assume you still want everything like you said when we talked on the phone? Oh, that reminds me, would you like me to paint July in what she's wearing, or did you have another outfit in mind? Because we can totally do the clothes another day. I can just work on the face today, or the hands, or both." I start walking backwards, leading July and her mother to the next room, which is filled with overstuffed chairs and books no one's ever even opened. I could shut up now, and save myself from the impending embarrassment, which is bound to come if I keep rambling like this. But once again, I don't.

"How long will the sitting today be? I don't have anything else planned, so we can go as long as you like. It'll probably take about a week to finish the portrait, give or take. I'll have a better idea once I get started, and then I could let you know at the end of today's session. Would you like to see my studio?" For a second, I think maybe Mrs. Jacquez is having second thoughts about me, because she doesn't say a thing. And then I realize that I've been talking at hyper-speed and I haven't even taken a breath yet. I do that now, making a lot more noise than I had anticipated. I feel my cheeks turn the slightest shade of pink. Mrs. Jacquez is probably just trying to figure out what the heck I just said and which one of my numerous questions she should answer first. In the future, I should try to be less excited.

And you, you are in my dreams
You're underneath my skin,
How am I so weak?