Some people deliberately tell lies to others, while others lie to themselves. Oftentimes, they lie not just out of spite or misunderstanding, but rather to protect the fragile truth that they can't bear to honestly admit: I wanted that... but I couldn't actually have it. expressing words reeking of sour grapes, though still trying to mask it with indifference—pretending something is worthless because, deep down, it's actually out of reach. I used to think that people usually meant what they said, but my secondary school days taught me otherwise.
I was usually reserved, a quiet girl—the kind who would disappear into corners. While others ran hurriedly outside the classroom at break time, I would either stay back and sit quietly to enjoy my snacks in peace. Sometimes, I would slip into the library or, preferably, the art studio because these places were usually quiet. They were always cool and still, like the outside world paused at their doors. In that space of calmness and serenity, my silence wasn't loneliness; It was peace, an actual peace of mind. The scent of old and new books lying on the huge shelf, waiting to be touched, the free chairs just lying bare, waiting for warmth, and of course, the atmospheric environment was so soothing and inviting for a relaxing read. Oh! my goodness, I so love the library. And then my utmost companion, the art studio, the scent of old paper, turpentine, and pencil dust wrapped around me like a comfortable hug; the soothing calmness, too, is out of this world. That was my world—and I didn't need much else.
Then came the announcement.
Mr. Nelson, our art teacher, walked into the classroom one Tuesday afternoon, just as the school was about to close for the day, his eye gleaming. "The National Student Art Showcase is coming up," he said. "Theme: Hidden Stories. The winner gets a full scholarship, a laptop and a professional art kit. Second place gets #500,000 and a laptop. Third place gets #250,000 and a professional art kit." He paused, letting the information sink in. "Only one entry per school. Best work takes the reward." Mr. Nelson ended his announcement grinning.
A hum rippled through the classroom.
My heart skipped. An actual amazing laptop; I had desired one for so long. A real art kit: brushes, paints, a sketchbook, and a variety of color types—the kind I'd only ever seen in online catalogs. And a scholarship to go with it! "This would mean alot to me and lessen the financial burden for my parents," I thought out loud, so I quickly wrote my name on the sign-up sheet before doubt could eventually creep in.
Titi didn't.
Titi was good at art—bold, stylish, and very loud. She was like a sun around which smaller stars orbited. In fact, Titi is everything dramatic. Her father was a wealthy businessman, and she wore designer clothes like they were actually uniforms. With glossy braids and a confident stride, she parades through the school as if it were built just for her alone.
"Why bother with this contest?" Titi snapped at everyone, eyeing my form with disdain as she saw me signing up. "These things are fake; they are already rigged from the start. It's just a total waste of time. They do not want people with real talent." She discouraged me. Her words dripped with sour grapes because deep down, she knew she'd never had the courage to sign up herself.
No one replied to her, but I could sense her eyes were on me.
I started working immediately after Mr. Nelson made that amazing announcement. After every class, I would immediately go to the art studio to work and was always the last to leave.
Everyday, Titi would walk pass, monitoring my every move, keeping track of my every steps, eavesdropping on my conversations.
One afternoon after class, I was still at the studio as usual when Titi walked pass and said loudly enough for me to hear. "All that shading won't make her win. No one wants boring pencil drawings like hers." She bawled out.
What she did not know was that I'd actually seen her too—late one afternoon, on my way to the ladies' room to ease myself. She was alone in the back of the library, sketching furiously into her sketchbook, scribbling, turning, and tearing out the pages and stuffing them into her backpack. Her face tightened with frustration.
At that moment, doubt made its way into my heart, but I Immediately shoved it off and continued my sketch.
"whatever!" I exclaimed loud enough for Titi to hear as well.
Then I was able to finish. My piece was a quiet sketch—a girl sitting at a window, her shadow cast in the shape of wings. I named it after the contest "Hidden Stories." Behind the sketch was a story I could not say out loud: of actually discovering myself in silence, and of tasting the occasional sour grape of envy when I saw others living the boldness I have actually kept hidden.
"Here's my submission for the art contest." I handed in my drawing to Mr. Nelson, my hands trembling.
Titi didn't submit anything. "Its not that important," she once told her carcass of friends.
"Thank you, dear. I will surely add it to the already compiled artwork," Mr. Nelson assured me, grinning.
Soon, all the artworks were submitted. The principal assembled all the student and made a huge announcement.
"We are proud to announce that Happiness's piece has been chosen to represent our school at the National Student Art Showcase," The principal said, beaming.
My ears buzzed. Applause rang out like beating drums. I just stood still, stuned.
After the art display at the contest, unfortunately, I did not emerge as the winner. However, my piece was chosen for second place. I finally got my first-ever laptop and #500,000. My parents were relieved, at least for a particular period of time.The principal called me again in front of the assembly to congratulate me, as well as all my classmates and teachers. I was overwhelmed with joy.
Titi's voice echoed over the noise. "Seriously? she won second place for just that? well, it's just because they like pity art. I would have done better or even won first place if I'd entered." She sneered.
Chidinma, one of our classmates, whispered, "Then why didn't you?"
She flipped her braids backwards. "Please, I didn't need all that stress, I'm not desperate like some people are." She mocked.
Later that day, I returned to the studio as usual, alone as always. I suddenly stumbled over a tucked page under a plain wood. I immediately recognized it—torn at the edges, with unfinished bold strokes, a fierce but beautiful start. I knew it was hers; I'm definitely sure it was Titi's. She had tried, but then she gave up.
Then I thought "that means she hadn't believe that she could lose... until she suddenly realized that she actually might.
Instantly, Titi walked into the studio.
"You can keep it," she said, pretending to yawn, a hint of sour grapes in her tone as she acted like she didn't care. "It wasn't even my best work," she smirked.
"Wow! This is really beautiful," I said honestly.
She muttered, "whatever, it is just a dumb contest. Not real art anyway."
She walked away before I could even utter another word.
I smiled as I watched Titi walk away in silence. Definitely a sour grape moment— some grapes don't need to be sweet. It is just enough to know that they were never truly out of reach.
THANKS ALOT FOR READING.