Phantom

Chapter 11

After my online store reached a thousand pending prints, I had to close it to future orders.

It’ll take me weeks, if not months, to get all of those orders filled as it is.

Especially with my new class schedule. Apparently, at Lizbeth they employ the most strenuous curriculum during sophomore and junior year, in an attempt to encourage their students to take advantage of the diverse and plentiful study abroad programs their senior year.

So, needless to say, my class schedule is jam-packed, with a measly twenty-minute window sandwiched in between for lunch.

As I get ready for my eight o’clock class on Monday morning, I feel sick to my stomach and I can’t stop my hands from shaking.

After spending all weekend with my classmates, I have to admit I’m thoroughly intimidated––from an artistic standpoint, anyway.

Emmy has a natural talent with the brush that other artists would kill for.

Franco’s sketches are more detailed than most photographs I’ve seen, and Iris’s sculptures are so intricate and bold that they demand their audience’s attention.

Even Zayne’s photographs are impressive, but I’m not willing to give him any further praise than that at the moment.

When I step out of our shared bathroom twenty minutes before class is due to start, my hair is curled, and my face is made up.

I’m not sure why, but I really want to make a good impression on my first proper day here.

My outfit is plain, though, consisting of boyfriend-cut jeans and a graphic tee.

Since most of my classes are art classes now, I’m going to be wearing my protective coveralls more often than not, so who cares what I’m wearing underneath?

I grab the violently yellow fabric and shove it in my backpack next to a couple of new textbooks before taking one of my portable painting totes, specifically the one I stayed up far too late organizing.

I meet Emmy in the hall, and we start the short trek to class together.

“Are you ready?” she asks, adjusting the clear-rimmed eyeglasses perched atop the bridge of her nose. Apparently she only wears them while painting, opting for contacts the rest of the time.

“I think so,” I say in a timid, wavering pitch.

Emmy shoves me gently before preaching, “Don’t worry so much. I stalked your socials and your work is good. Have faith in that. Okay?”

“Yeah, okay,” I yield with a nervous twitch of my lips.

By the time we make it to the Dalí Building, it’s full of students. We wind our way through the halls to our sizable classroom.

“Professor Waller is Daniel,” I exclaim when I see him standing near the front of the classroom.

Emmy asks as we walk toward him, “Did he proctor your audition?”

“Yep.”

“Maeve, welcome,” Professor Waller says when he sees me. “It’s good to have you here with us.”

“Thanks, Professor—”

He cuts me off with an open palm. “Please, I ask my students to call me Daniel. Just Daniel.”

Reveling in the familiarity, I correct my previous statement, “Thanks, Daniel.”

“I’ve reserved the easel in the back left corner for you. Has Emmy got you up to speed?” he asks.

“I have,” Emmy answers him with a flash of teeth, before whispering in my ear as we walk toward our seats, “but I purposely left out the most important part. I can’t wait to see your reaction.”

“What?” I ask, but I don’t need her to answer me because in front of us, on a small raised wooden block in the center of the room, is a model removing his robe—leaving absolutely nothing underneath to the imagination.

Crap! I knew the class had started live portraits, but I didn’t know we’d be expected to paint nudes. My cheeks and ears burn. Thoroughly rattled, I fumble through the motions as I place my tote on my stool and step into my coveralls.

Emmy giggles beside me. “I thought you’d react this way. Most art students our age haven’t been tasked with a project like this yet, but Lizbeth wants us to be as prepared as possible for anything and everything our future careers or graduate programs might throw at us.”

“But . . . how—”

Her pale eyebrows flash with anticipation. “How are you supposed to stare at a naked guy for the next three hours without dying of second-hand embarrassment?”

My mouth twists into a reluctant frown. “Well, yeah . . . kinda.”

“When you sit in front of your easel and start thinking about it through an artist’s lens, it won’t seem so uncomfortable anymore,” she explains as she methodically organizes her paintbrushes. “The model is here to do a job, just like we are. Trust me, you’ll get used to it quickly enough.”

I peer at Emmy, suddenly extremely grateful to have gained her friendship. She always seems to know the exact right thing to say to soothe my worries.

So I take her advice. I sit before my easel and force my gaze toward the model, despite how desperately it wants to stray literally anywhere else.

The model is older than we are, but not by much.

Perhaps in his mid-twenties. He’s of average height and rotund, with fair muscle definition.

His auburn hair is shorn close to the scalp on the sides and left longer on top so that his fringe hangs around his eyebrows.

With a loud clap of his hands to quiet down the room, Daniel says, “All right class, we’re tackling live portraits again today. You’ve had some practice with this, so I’m hoping, by now, you’ll be able to really inspire me. You have three hours.”

I jump into the work immediately, sketching the model first. He’s looking toward a wall comprised of windows, the sunlight highlighting his face and casting haunting shadows along the plains of his body.

I study his stiff posture, his graceful hand placement, the demure expression on his face, and in my head, I make up a story for him.

He appears discontent. Worried. Impatient.

Perhaps, I chronicle to myself, he’s lost the love of his life, and wonders if he can win them back.

He’s looking to the light—to his lost love—in search of redemption.

My hand can’t quite seem to keep up with my brain, but I sketch as fast as I can.

When the foundation is there, I yank my palette from its resting place and pick my colors.

Zayne’s photography has been inspiring me ever since his party, so today, I opt for a monochromatic color scheme.

I consider gray, but ultimately settle on beige.

I don’t have a single tubed paint color to fit the bill, so I set to mixing.

When I have ten different shades of beige mixed and ready to go on my palette, I begin to paint.

I fill the background in with the darkest, grayish shade of beige, and let the model be home to the lighter shades.

I spend far too much time on his face, transfixed by his expression.

There’s more to this story, but I’m not sure I have the time to dwell on it.

Forcing myself to move on, I finish painting his body, and jolt upright in my seat when I find that Emmy was right.

It is easier to focus on and honor the model’s nudity when you view it as a job.

I’m truly grateful that the model is here, donating his time to our education.

By the time Daniel is calling out a fifteen-minute warning, I’m adding the finishing touches to the piece.

I release a long, heavy breath, leaning back to view my work in its entirety.

My eyes are immediately drawn to the model’s face and I’m pleased that I took the time to add in the extra details.

It elevates the piece more than anything else.

In my rendition of the scene, the model looks heartbroken, but fiercely determined.

Is it my best work ever? No. But do I still love it? Hell yes.

“Holy shit,” Emmy breathes beside me. Her eyes are stretched wide behind her glasses. “You went with a monochromatic color scheme? Why?”

I shrug. “Zayne’s photography inspired me, I guess, though I’m loath to admit it. And I let my inspiration guide my art, even if it doesn’t necessarily fit with the subject matter I’m painting.”

“Why?”

I tap the end of my paintbrush to my chin. “Well, if I force myself to conform to everyone else’s expectations, I’ll get bored, or worse, resentful. And I’m not keen on letting that happen.”

Emmy looks at me as though she’s never seen me before. “Damn.”

“What’s all the chatter about over here?” Daniel asks as he weaves through the crowd of easels and chairs.

Emmy points at my canvas. “Check out Maeve’s painting.”

Daniel comes to a stop a foot or so behind my chair and assesses my painting over my shoulder. He’s silent for several moments before he speaks. “Remarkable.”

Some unidentifiable weight snaps loose from its tether deep within the chasm of my chest; my shoulders pull back for the first time since I stepped foot on campus.

Suddenly, chairs are scratching against the linoleum floor and students are clamoring to get a look.

I stand and back away while my classmates get their fill.

As though I’d unintentionally stepped into a sauna, my entire body warms, growing damp.

I’ve never had a group of people this large appreciate my art at the same time like this, and it’s more than a little disorienting.

“It looks like our newcomer understood the assignment,” Daniel announces. “Tell us, Maeve, what was going through your head while you composed this painting?”

I clear my throat, desperate for the dryness to subside.

“Well, um, first, I tried to identify the emotion the model was experiencing, then I, uh, just created a story in my head that fit with the emotion, I guess, and my choice of color scheme was inspired by a piece of art I saw over the weekend.”

“Magnificent. And which emotion did you imagine the model was experiencing?” he asks.

I glance at the model, who, thankfully, is robed once more, his job complete. He’s staring back at me, eyes narrowed in uncertainty.

“A determined kind of sadness,” I say, returning my gaze to the professor. “Like something important hasn’t gone his way and he’s trying to find his way through to the other side.”

“You could see that?”

“Sorry?” I ask, turning to find the model with his lips parted in apparent awe. He’s standing all the way across the room, so it’s difficult to hear him.

“I was just fired from my dream job last month,” the model explains, “and now I’m trying to figure out what to do next.”

“Well, there you have it, class,” Daniel exclaims in a booming voice. “It seems our newest student is the one to beat this year. I suggest you all do your best from here on out.”

Silence cloaks the room for the length of a few tortuous heartbeats until it’s broken by a harsh scoff. I look toward the sound to find a tall, masculine-presenting person with indigo-hued hair in a paint-stained apron shooting daggers at me. The violence in their gaze sends a shiver down my spine.

Suddenly, I feel afraid, and very unwelcome.

“Class dismissed.”

By lunch, every student at Lizbeth knows my name.

“Well, shit,” Zayne says from the other side of the table. “You sure know how to make a splash.”

“I was just painting,” I respond dismissively.

“Take it as a compliment,” Emmy redirects. “Now everyone at this school wants to either kiss you, kill you or be you. Honestly, I’d do downright deplorable things for that kind of exposure right now.”

Franco asks, gaping, “Did you just quote The Hunger Games, Emmy?”

She waves him off as she retorts, “The classics are classic for a reason, Frankie, dear.”

He scowls at the nickname but opts to take a bite of his sandwich instead of arguing.

My phone vibrates several times in my pants pocket but I don’t move to grab it.

“Social media blowing up too?” Iris asks knowingly, her cool exterior slowly but surely starting to thaw.

“Yes,” I answer through tight lips. “But I really don’t think I deserve all of this attention. I’m not even that—”

Emmy cuts me off. “Don’t you dare finish that sentence.”

“Emmy’s right,” Zayne continues. “If you finish that sentence, you’ll be discrediting yourself.

Would you allow a surgeon to operate on you if the first thing out of their mouth was, ‘I’m not even that good.

’ Absolutely fucking not. The vast majority of people on this planet can’t do what we can.

We might think everyone can create art like we can, if they were just given the opportunity, but that’s a lie we tell ourselves to dull our shine.

We are artists, so we should damn well act like it. ”

For a long moment, I’m quite literally too stunned to speak.

“You’re good, Maeve,” he finishes. “Just take the attention as a compliment like Emmy said, and move on.”

Everyone at the table resolves to eat their lunch, falling into amicable silence.

Eventually, Iris comments, “I know you can’t post the painting from class, but you should definitely post the painting you did over the weekend. The one depicting the world turned on its axis. It’s too good not to share.”

Taken aback, I ask, “You think?”

“Definitely,” she confirms with a nod.

“Plus, you’re a mini socialite at Lizbeth now,” Emmy chimes in breezily. “You need to keep your new fans appeased.”

“Right.” A humorless laugh escapes my lips. “Fans.”

Franco bumps my shoulder before speaking low into my ear so the others can’t hear, “I know it’s disorienting, but you’ll get used to it—the popularity, I mean. Plus, you’ve got us to help you through it.”

“Thanks,” I whisper back, the terrible tension in my shoulders abating.

While I walk to my next class, I post the photo of the painting Iris was referring to. It depicts a person walking around a busy city street in a world that’s been turned on its head. They’re walking on clouds while the people around them are walking on the ground, far, far above them.

That’s what being at Lizbeth feels like right now, especially after that dangerous look the scowling person gave me in class—like I was public enemy number one.

And with my newfound popularity on social media, the inevitable haters have started coming out of the woodwork.

Though few and far between, it’s impossible not to notice them, their black-and-white insults somehow louder than the overwhelming praise.

It’s like I’m walking on the clouds, terrifyingly immune to gravity, while everyone else around me is going on with their lives as normal. Right now, nothing feels normal. And I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to get back to normal again.