Chapter 10
The outfit Emmy dresses me in is undeniably hot. I’m donning a thin, silver slip dress under a stylish, oversized blazer with chunky black boots. The dress is a few inches too long on me, given our height difference, but I couldn’t care less. It’s not like I’m trying to impress anyone anyway.
Before we leave the dorm, I text Noah and Alexis to let them know how my first day went.
Alexis doesn’t respond right away (of course), but Noah’s immediate response is more muted than usual.
For a moment, I’m taken aback, but then I remind myself that it’s probably just because he’s sad.
And I understand that, really, I do. I’m sad too, in a way, but I’m also exhilarated.
Tonight, I’m actually going to try and make some new friends.
Hell, I think I’m already halfway there with Emmy.
She seemed to honestly delight in hearing about Noah and gossiping about Phantom while getting ready with me.
Iris, not so much. She’ll definitely take more time to warm up. But I’m determined.
When the three of us are ready, we leave the dorm, walking out into the chilly September night. The brisk wind sends a wave of goosebumps skating across the skin of my bare legs.
“Where’s this party anyway?” I ask, already shivering. “We’re all underage, right? I don’t turn twenty-one for another two months.”
Iris rolls glitter-lidded eyes. “It’s like she’s never been to a party before.”
“House party,” Emmy explains. “Our friend Zayne lives right off campus.”
I can tell when we’re getting close because a few minutes later, I feel more than hear the pounding bass. The sound system in the house must be blasting at full volume for us to be able to sense it from here.
“Okay, newbie. A few bits of advice for you,” Emmy begins, turning to speak to me while she walks backward.
“Only drink beverages out of cans or bottles that you have to open yourself. Don’t drink the punch or anything anybody hands you, unless you’re open to the possibility of a roofie trip.
Also, stick by us if you can. We’ll make sure you avoid the worst of this crowd.
And try your best to have some fun, all right? ”
Emmy smiles, the flash of it bright against the dark veil of night, and making me feel as though I’m glowing right along with her. She really is something else. But I don’t have time to linger on the thought as she throws open the door, the deafening din of the party instantly overwhelming me.
“Welcome to casa de los Sanchez,” Emmy yells over the music.
Even with the entryway jam-packed with young people, the interior of the house is breathtaking, with its tall ceilings, ornate crown molding, and tasteful monochromatic photographs decorating the walls.
“Zayne,” Iris yells too. “You have ten seconds to get your ass down here and greet us!”
Emmy starts counting down the time with her long, polished fingers.
A young man with jet-black hair, a jaw that could probably cut glass, and flawless golden-brown skin comes swaggering down the winding main staircase on Emmy’s count of three.
A plain, though expensive-looking black T-shirt hugs slender shoulders, while his dark wash jeans hang loosely from his hips, the hem hovering just above a pair of shiny black ankle boots.
A flash of gold twinkles in the dim light as one of his hands slides along the banister.
“Baby!” Emmy squeals, running to throw her arms around who I can only assume is the evening’s host, Zayne. In her platform heels, she towers over him, so she bends at the waist to greet him.
He smirks at her, pausing to kiss both of her cheeks before turning curiously toward me.
“This is Maeve,” Iris introduces. “She’s my new roommate. The small-town painter turned internet sensation.”
Before I can even blush, a flashbulb goes off in my face, momentarily blinding me.
My lashes flutter viciously as angry splotches of technicolor confetti momentarily distort the world.
When my vision returns, I realize Zayne’s holding a fancy camera.
I hadn’t noticed him wearing it before, but now I also take note of the thick lanyard wrapped around his neck.
“Hello beautiful,” Zayne murmurs, his full mouth cocked in a devilish half-smile. His own beauty stuns me for a moment.
“Sorry, I’m not—” I begin to apologize as my cheeks sting.
“Back off, baby,” Emmy coos in Zayne’s ear. “She’s taken. She’s got a nice golden retriever boy back home.”
“Damn shame,” Zayne says with a strange glint in his eye. “Well, I’m Zayne. Welcome to the party. Can I get you anything?”
I lock eyes with Emmy, asking her a silent question with a cocked brow. Almost imperceptibly, she shrugs and shakes her head.
Really? We aren’t even going to trust the host?
“No, thanks,” I rush to say. “Not thirsty.”
“Suit yourself. Ladies, it’s a pleasure, as always. See you around.” He snaps two more quick photos of us before disappearing through a domed archway.
“What the hell?” I ask, and Emmy laughs.
“Zayne’s a scoundrel, but he’ll grow on you. No matter how hard you try to fight it.”
My gaze floats back to the archway he disappeared through. “He’s a photographer?”
“Yep, one of the ten photography students at this school, in fact,” Iris explains. “It’s the most selective discipline. So, I’m sure you can guess just how talented that makes him. Which explains why he’s so unbearable.”
I ponder that while we cut through the thick throng of people in the entryway and the living room before entering the kitchen.
A large metal tub filled with beer and ice sweats in a pool of water on top of the center island.
The ice-cold glass burns my already numb fingers as I grab a bottle and twist the cap off.
There’s a strobe light set up in the corner, and the flickering red, blue, and yellow light reflects like a mirror off of Emmy’s platinum-blonde hair.
“Anyone want to dance?” she calls over her shoulder as she eyes the other doorway.
“My leg’s a bit sore today,” Iris says. “The prosthetic’s been rubbing me weird. You two go ahead. I’ll find Claire.”
“Who’s Claire?” I ask, raising my voice to compete with the sound of the music blaring in the next room.
“My girlfriend,” Iris yells back.
I try not to scream my response right into Iris’s ear. “I’d love to meet her.”
Iris’s eyes bounce back and forth between mine before she eventually nods. “Sure. I’ll bring her to the dance floor after I find her.”
Emmy grabs my hand and drags me through the doorway she’d been eyeing, and we burst into a library––the floor-to-ceiling cherry wood bookcases give it away.
The massive shelves are packed with books, just like the center of the room is packed with moving bodies.
The only light in this room flashes from yet another strobe light, and when the light flickers near a group of people vaping in the corner, the thick billows of smoke before their mouths turn acid green, then blood red, then electric purple.
Draped in neon light, the room devolves into an underground dance club before my very eyes, and I find my body moving to the music without my consent, the rhythm just as intoxicating as the beer in my hand.
“‘Atta girl!” Emmy cries, pulling me to the center of the room.
We jump, spin, and dance until our beers are empty and our minds are buzzing.
Thoroughly out of breath, I dip out of the sea of people to lean against one of the bookshelves. I rest my head back and focus on my breathing. Moments later, I’m assaulted by another bright flash of white light.
“You should really ask permission before photographing people,” I snipe at Zayne, a scowl screwing up my face.
“Oh, really?” he asks, his tone surprisingly earnest. “I just assume everyone wants to have their photo taken by me. After all, if I take their photo, it means I believe the moment deserves to last forever. Very few people are afforded that honor.”
Perhaps he’s trying to be witty or charming, but it’s not working on me.
“It’s pretty rude,” I say curtly, with the hope it’ll cut the conversation short.
But, of course, it doesn’t. Instead, he says simply, “Sometimes that’s what art is.”
I consider that for a moment as my breathing regulates.
“Well, whatever. Next time you want to take my photo, you ask permission first. Got it?”
“Sure,” he agrees with a smirk, dropping his camera to let it dangle around his neck. “I’m curious,” he continues, his voice dropping almost too low to hear over the music’s pulsing synth. “What’s your first impression of Lizbeth?”
I dip my head toward the floor as I reply, “Well, the campus is beautiful and the professors seem nice, but the students . . .”
“Are one in a million,” Zayne finishes for me. “That’s why we’re here.”
I study his face. Thick eyebrows with a permanent crease in the skin between them. Impish eyes, the deep blue-gray of a stormy ocean. Now I understand why the others can only trust him so far.
Emmy comes tumbling out of the throng of dancers, sweat-drenched hair plastered against the sides of her face. She’s grinning from ear to ear.
“Maeve! More drinks,” she demands.
“May I?” Zayne asks me before letting Emmy drag me away.
I eye him hesitantly. “Fine, but I’m not smiling.”
The smirk that rises to his lips tells me he’s more than pleased with my response. “Good. Smiles are always fake.”
He snaps another picture and walks away before I can fully process what just happened. Then Emmy is urging me back toward the kitchen. When we get there, we find Iris and Claire making out against the refrigerator. Until they come up for air, Emmy and I decide to give them a wide berth.
“Archibald! You made it,” a familiar voice cries from behind us. With a new beer to my lips, I turn to find Franco walking toward us. “And the newbie. Hey!”
“Hi Franco.” I smile—not fake at all.
“I see you’ve already met the woman of the hour,” Emmy says, gesturing to me.
“Yup. Gave her the welcome tour this morning.” His hair is down tonight, soft brown waves framing his angular face.
Emmy nudges me with her elbow. “Lucky for you, Maeve. The other tour guides are dull as hell.”
“You sure know how to flatter a guy,” Franco says to Emmy with a wink.
“Franco lives here with Zayne,” Emmy explains to me.
“How’s that going for you?” I ask with far more bite than I’d intended. The single beer I had must already be going to my head, which makes sense. I’ve always been a lightweight.
Franco’s eyebrows reach for his hairline. “I see you’ve formed your own opinion of him already. I’m not surprised. In a dress like that, you were bound to catch his attention.”
I snort, trying to come off as dismissive, but I’m pretty sure I ruin it by looking down at my outfit self-consciously.
“But seriously, Zayne is a good guy deep down,” he explains. “You just have to learn his quirks. If you act like a doormat, he’ll stomp on you until you’re dead. But if you demand his respect, and do something worthy of earning it, he’ll be the most loyal friend you’ve ever had.”
“What did you do to earn his respect then?” I ask, failing to mask the irritation in my voice.
“I told him one of his photographs was garbage,” he says matter-of-factly. Emmy gasps dramatically. “Because it was. And he respects me now because I spoke the truth.”
“Fair enough.” I whirl on Emmy. “Then what did you do to earn his respect?”
“I slept with him,” she replies simply, an empty beer bottle dangling from her fingers. “I was so good, I made him cry.”
She laughs maniacally as Franco chokes on his beer. I roll my eyes but laugh right along with them.
Beside us, Iris and Claire appear, their hair disheveled and outfits askew. Claire’s long copper strands are braided and wound into an intricate bun at the nape of her neck. Her pale skin and freckles look almost sallow under the vivid, pulsing light, though it does nothing to dampen her allure.
“Claire, this is Maeve,” Iris says.
I grin as alcohol hums beneath my skin, loosening my tense, nervous muscles. “Hi. Nice to meet you.”
“You too,” she replies, drawing my attention to her tragically smeared plum-hued lipstick.
“Claire makes digital art,” Iris explains, though her gaze remains glued to her partner.
“And you paint, right?” Claire asks me, squinting as the oscillating strobe light nearly blinds us.
“Yeah.”
“Well, it looks like you’ve met the whole crew, newbie,” Franco proclaims, leaning against the center island. “Now, let’s get outrageously drunk.”
Emmy cries, “That’s what I’m talking about.”
Everyone refreshes their drinks from the tub and forms a semi-circle around the island.
“To sophomore year. One of the best years of our lives,” Franco toasts.
Bottles clink all around and everyone drains their drinks.
As the chill of the glass lingers on my lips, I wonder how exactly I’ll fit in with these people, but when Emmy takes my hand, once more leading me toward the library/makeshift dance floor, I realize I’m more than willing to try.
The night passes us by in a hazy, sweat-stained blur.
I vaguely remember dancing my heart out, and drinking to excess, and being led, bleary-eyed, back to our dorm by Emmy and Iris. But what I remember most is the painting I dream up in the realm between sleep and wakefulness after being safely tucked into my new bed.
I’ll start it this weekend, I promise myself. Right after I visit Phantom’s mural again.