Chapter 9
Franco was absolutely right. The second half of my orientation is boring.
I fight a sudden wave of drowsiness as I refocus on Professor Ahmed.
We’ve discussed my class schedule, course curriculums, as well as campus rules and restrictions.
Now, she’s going over the ins and outs of the student handbook, but to be honest, I couldn’t care less.
I breathe a sigh of relief when a bell rings from somewhere within the bowels of the building, signaling the end of the hour and, hopefully, the end of my orientation.
“Well, that should cover the gist of it,” Professor Ahmed says. “Any questions?”
“Nope,” I reply as I stuff my orientation packet into my bag. “Thanks.”
I dash from the room and head for the exit. The sun blinds me for a moment when I step outside. I squint while taking in my surroundings, trying to orient myself. My dorm should be a ten-minute walk from here, to the east I think, but I consult the campus map in my bag before heading that way.
Small clumps of students pass me by as I walk.
The first pair are dressed in all black, their respective hair dyed every color of the rainbow.
Their silver face piercings glint in the afternoon sun.
Next, a cluster of preppy kids dressed in expensive-looking clothes walk by with freshly highlighted roots, manicured eyebrows, and heavily glossed lips.
Then, a group of students that look more like me trot past: hair loose and natural, skin recently sunburnt, Target-brand wardrobes with worn-in sneakers.
They’re each quirky and unique, individual in their style, clothes and mannerisms. The sight brings a smile to my face.
On a narrow strip of sidewalk between two buildings, I pass a wall with a large mural painted right onto the brick. I only give it a fleeting glance, so it takes my brain a second to register the image. But when it does, I do a double take, mouth falling open.
I’ve seen this mural before. On Phantom’s social media accounts. Holy shit. Why is this here?
I wait for another group of students to pass by before stepping up to the mural.
This painting has always been one of my favorites of theirs.
A half-decayed bird in mid-flight, the feathers painted in striking silver and the bones black as night, with one eye blue and the other green.
It’s strange and disturbing . . . and undeniably moving.
It makes me feel an emotion I’m all too familiar with: Burnout.
The bird in the painting has given everything it has to give, and then some—parts of its own body—only for it to continue to fly. Its dual-toned eyes are wary. It has, quite literally, nothing left to give, yet it does so anyway. Giving and giving and giving until there’s nothing left.
My eyes well with hot tears at the sight of it here, before me, in real life. Not on a screen or in my dreams.
A girl giggles behind me, drawing me from my stupor. I wipe at my eyes, embarrassment coaxing cold sweat from the skin at the base of my spine, but thankfully, a brief glance reveals that she’s laughing at a friend and not at me.
When I’m alone on the sidewalk again, I reach out a tentative hand. The paint is old, significantly faded compared to the photo I’d become so familiar with, as if the painting’s been here for months, if not years.
Does that mean Phantom went here? Or goes here? Or perhaps they painted this while visiting a friend? I have to find out.
Taking one final look at the painting, I kiss my fingertips before pressing them to the bird’s gaping chest, in the place the heart should be. I’ll be back, I promise.
While continuing my trek back to the dorm, my mind buzzes with thoughts of Phantom.
But when I get there, I notice the door to my room is slightly ajar.
I thrust it open to find my new roommate pushing one of my boxes into a corner.
And there’s another person in the room too.
A blonde-haired young woman with enviably long legs lounging on my bed.
“Um, hi,” I say, stepping into the room.
“Hi,” the woman on my bed says with a bright, friendly smile.
My roommate gives me a sarcastic wave but says nothing.
“I’m Maeve. Who are you?” I ask the woman, since she seems to be the only semi-friendly person in the room at the moment.
“I’m Emmy. Emmy Archibald. Don’t worry about remembering my name, it’ll be plastered everywhere soon enough,” she replies breezily, finally dismounting my bed. She’s so tall, probably close to six feet.
“Uh, right. Nice to meet you. And, uh—you are?” I ask hesitantly, aiming the question at my roommate.
“Glade!” Emmy chastises in a near shriek. “You haven’t told your new roomie your name yet? You’re such a bitch.”
My roommate rolls her eyes before responding monotonously, “Iris Glade.” She turns to Emmy and asks, “Happy now?”
Emmy shakes her head. “Not even close.”
“So, are you both sophomores?” I ask, gaining confidence in light of their easy banter.
“Yep,” Emmy answers primly. “I’m a painter, and Iris is a sculptor.”
“Cool, I’m a painter too.”
Iris pulls out her desk chair and sits before opening her laptop. Trying her best to ignore us, it appears.
“So, I saw something strange on my way back from orientation,” I begin, turning to face Emmy, automatically assuming she’ll be the more likely of the two to answer my question. “It looked like a painting I’ve seen before, from a pretty popular painter named Phantom. Is it a replica, or is it—”
Emmy interrupts me before I can finish. “You mean the depressing mural of that dead bird? Yep, that’s the original.” She says it so casually, as if this information wouldn’t turn my whole world entirely upside down.
My breath hitches, making me choke on my words. “You’re joking.”
“Serious as death,” she says as she crosses her arms over her chest like a corpse in a coffin.
“Who are they?” I ask. “I have to meet them.”
“Good luck with that,” Iris scoffs.
Emmy reads the question in my face.
“No one’s been able to figure out their true identity.” She rakes a deft hand through the bluntly trimmed ends of her hair. “We don’t even know for sure if they go here, or if they just randomly drop by campus to show off.”
“Seriously?”
“Yep,” Emmy affirms with a nod of finality. “It’s the university’s biggest scandal, honestly, and what a shame too. If someone unmasked them, it’d be the juiciest bit of gossip these halls have seen in decades.”
“Shit . . .” I fall to sit on the edge of my bed, defeated.
Emmy asks, a curious glint in her gaze, “Big fan, are you?”
My eyes squint as I grimace. “Is it that obvious?”
“Clear as crystal,” she taunts with a light-hearted waggle of her eyebrows.
“Someone’s got to figure out who they are eventually though, right?” I ask.
“Want an autograph that bad?” Iris taunts, eyeing me over the top of her laptop. Apparently, I’m interesting enough to warrant her attention now.
Anger flares in my chest. “No. Not an autograph. I’d just like to meet them. Once. To thank them. They’ve been something of an inspiration to me over the years,” I explain proudly, not willing to let Iris’s scrutiny intimidate me anymore.
Her eyebrow cocks up at my response. “Interesting.”
“Do you like Phantom’s work too?” I ask, sensing an opening.
She sucks her teeth, clearly still irritated. “Only an idiot wouldn’t.”
Emmy opens her mouth to speak, but Iris beats her to it, “Yes, Emmy, I mean you. You’re an idiot.”
Emmy shoots Iris a withering glare. “I’m not an idiot; I just prefer art with . . . happier undertones.”
“You don’t mean ‘happy,’ you mean ‘commercial,’” Iris retorts hotly.
“Commercial?” I ask, confused as hell as I pull at a frayed thread dangling from my lumpy, standard-issue dorm mattress.
“Emmy comes from a royal artistic pedigree. All of them are infuriatingly successful and disgustingly wealthy. So my dear friend here is under the impression that she’ll be worth nothing at all as an artist if she isn’t racking up the dollar signs with her art. Isn’t that right, darling?”
Emmy huffs. “Something like that. But we both know my brush has the Midas touch. Everything it touches turns to gold.” Her grin turns wicked.
This time, Iris notes the question in my expression. “She’s already won thousands in cash prizes from art competitions.”
“No way!” I exclaim, jealousy unhinging my jaw.
Emmy says with mischief in her eyes, “Just to prove I could.”
Who the hell are these girls?
“What about you?” I ask Iris.
“What about me?”
“Why did you choose art?”
She blinks and her mouth pops open. She obviously hadn’t been anticipating that question.
“Oh, this is a good one. Storytime!” Emmy squeals as she drops down onto Iris’s bed.
“No,” Iris argues. “I just met her. I’m not telling her—”
“Glade, darling. You like her, and you know it. Get over yourself and spill the tea,” Emmy insists.
Iris flips Emmy off and takes a deep, reluctant breath before she speaks.
“I almost died from cancer when I was eight. Osteosarcoma. The child life specialist at the hospital I basically lived at introduced me to art. It’s what got me through it all: chemo, radiation, the .
. . amputation, and rehab. Art saved my life.
” She speaks as quickly as possible, as if I don’t deserve to be learning this truth about her.
And who knows? Maybe I don’t.
Emmy sighs reverently. “Oh, I just love that story. A tale of bravery, gusto, and passion. I swoon every time.” She rolls onto her back, throwing her arms dramatically to the sides.
“Wow. That’s inspiring,” I say, but it feels inadequate.
“That’s why Glade is the valedictorian of our class,” Emmy gleefully brags on her friend’s behalf, rolling back to her stomach, feet pumping back and forth in the air. “Her dedication to the craft is unmatched.”
“Enough,” Iris chides, throwing a pen at her.
“Look, we’re planning on going to a party tonight,” Emmy says as she easily dodges the plastic projectile. “Do you want to come with?”
“Are you sure?” I confirm, noting the flash of annoyance in Iris’s gaze.
“Positive,” she replies with a nod. “But we’re going to have to find you a different outfit, babe. I’m not bringing you looking like that.”
I look down at my high-rise jeans and long-sleeved crop top, confused. “Uh, okay.”
“Don’t worry, I have just the thing for you.”
I swallow hard as Emmy dashes from the room and I’m left beneath Iris’s cold, calculating gaze.
Franco was right again. I am in for a wild ride.