Chapter 14
Two full weeks have gone by since the night I finished the painting on the roof.
I waited to post the painting on social media until the following day, and luckily, the stranger from the roof—the stranger who, despite my most valiant efforts to move on, has been haunting my every thought—had been right.
My painting’s reception was phenomenal. So much so, it went well beyond my wildest dreams.
While my completed piece depicted the same hand as the one from Zayne’s photograph, the composition I went with was markedly different.
Instead of the hand floating among a bright white background, the hand in my rendition floated among the constellations, losing its grip on the stars themselves, as opposed to measly grains of sand.
But, even given the striking differences between our work, our themes remained the same; highlighting humankind’s futile attempt at maintaining a grip on time.
Zayne was so impressed, he’d come running to campus, only to find me, Emmy, and Iris on the quad, lounging in the weak autumn sunlight, sipping celebratory lattes. He’d picked me up straight off the dewy ground, and crushed me in an embrace.
“Holy shit! You’re a maniac,” he’d cried.
“Does that mean you like it?” I’d asked.
Then, without warning, he’d taken out his phone, snapped a selfie of us, and posted it instantly online. “I fucking love it.”
We’ve done three livestream sessions discussing our collaboration since then, each one attracting over ten thousand viewers. But even more wild than that, the collaboration, which Zayne and I had affectionately named The Greatest Lost Cause (TGLC for short), had snagged the attention of . . . them.
Phantom.
Every molecule of air had evaporated from my lungs after I’d gotten the text from Emmy.
Check social media right this second. Someone special is posting about TGLC.
I’d pulled up the app, and saw the tagged video in my notifications center. My thumb had trembled as I clicked on it.
A video of Phantom had popped up, dressed in their signature white ensemble—mouthless ski mask and all—pointing toward a photo of my painting in the corner of the frame, and giving the camera the ‘ok’ hand sign.
‘Check it out’ the text on the video read, with my and Zayne’s social media handles listed in the caption.
I’d cried like a blubbering baby for an hour straight, unable to keep the disappointment and regret from boiling and bubbling over. If the stranger on the roof was indeed Phantom, I’d missed my shot. I’d missed the one chance I had to meet them, to thank them, to learn from them.
I don’t think this sinking feeling will ever dissipate, but at least I have this—Phantom publicly and proudly tipping their metaphorical hat at me. Acknowledgment from my muse. A dream come true.
It’s enough. It has to be enough.
I’ve grown used to the attention now; students calling out my name as I pass them on campus, young strangers in restaurants asking for pictures, other social media influencers asking me to do interviews and collaborations. It’s almost scary how quickly I was able to adapt.
But even though I’ve been floating on cloud nine since the debut of TGLC, I have to admit that I’m still dangerously sleep-deprived.
My classes are harder than I ever could’ve imagined, so every second I’m not managing my social media or hanging out with friends, I’m painting, studying, or moping about Phantom.
I try to pick up the pace as I walk to my oil painting class, but my feet feel like lead blocks. Damn, I really need a nap.
Seeing Iris in front of me on the sidewalk, I call out to her.
She turns, stopping to wait for me. When I catch up, she’s smirking at me. “Shit, Maeve. You look exhausted.”
“Thanks,” I scoff. “Now I know I look as bad as I feel. That makes me feel so much better.”
“Sorry,” she replies with a laugh. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just mean you should slow it down or you’re going to burn out before midterms.”
I groan. “Please, don’t remind me.”
“You’ll kill them if you take a minute to rest every now and then,” Iris says.
My mouth bends gratefully skyward. She’s become such a close friend over the last few weeks.
When I first met her, I took her cold exterior as a testament to her personality, but I couldn’t have been more wrong.
It sounds like it’s more likely a defense mechanism.
After two generously poured glasses of wine last weekend, Iris had confided in me.
Ever since her cancer diagnosis and subsequent amputation, she’s been terrified of being perceived as weak or fragile, which is why she comes off so hostile at the beginning.
But for those who persevere and power through the steely outer shell to the warm, compassionate Iris underneath, they’re rewarded greatly.
“You’re right,” I agree as we climb the front steps of the Dalí Building.
We wind through steady streams of students walking to their next class before coming to a stop at the foot of the building’s main staircase. Her class is on the third floor, while mine’s right down the hall.
“Tonight, we’ll have a self-care night,” she says, tired eyes perking up at the prospect. “You, me, and Emmy. We’ll do face masks and paint each other’s nails.”
“That sounds heavenly,” I breathe with a sigh, already aching for a warm set of pajamas and my bed, even though I just rolled out of it.
“Perfect, let’s say around—”
Iris doesn’t get a chance to finish her sentence as I feel a sharp blow to the center of my back; the subsequent twinge of pain is nothing compared to the considerable motion now sending me hurling forward. I go flying into Iris’s chest and we both tumble to the ground.
As if awoken by the fall, the muscles in my back throb as I look up to search for what sent us plummeting.
A tall student with indigo hair sheared close to the scalp is staring down at us with a look so vile, it practically oozes disgust. “Even art gods don’t get to take up the entire staircase.”
Making a conscious, though very difficult, decision not to pay our assailant any mind, I turn to Iris. “Are you okay?” I ask calmly, despite my heart beating fast as a hummingbird’s wings.
“Yeah, fine,” she says to me before glaring at the student towering over us. “What’s your problem, Remi?”
“My problem isn’t with you,” Remi sneers, shoving his hands in his jean pockets as Iris stands. “My problem is with the self-righteous rookie.”
“You’re talking about me, I take it?” I ask as I stand too.
The scowl on his face is a perfect replica of the look he gave me that first day in class. “See any other over-hyped painters around?”
“What have I ever done to you?” I demand.
Remi gets into my personal space so fast that I gasp. “Your mediocre art stole my thunder. But don’t worry, I plan to get it back very soon,” he whispers menacingly. His hot, moist breath pools in my ear, sending frightened goosebumps sprouting along the back of my neck.
“Woah,” Iris cries, grabbing Remi by the collar and yanking him back. “What the hell are you doing?” She drops him instantly, as if the contact burned her.
Remi turns his glare on Iris. “Whatever the hell I want.”
Even though Iris’s body language is relaxed, her fiery gaze betrays her fury. “Just because you’re one of the best painters in this school doesn’t give you permission to treat people like shit. Get your fucking ego under control.”
“Watch your back,” Remi spits in response, his tone dripping with deep-rooted hatred.
My original nickname for him was absolute perfection. Just an angry, scowling, insecure guy––nothing more. I won’t cower before him. I won’t give him the satisfaction.
“Is that a threat?” I ask, clenching my hands into fists at my sides to keep them from shaking.
“You bet,” he says with a smirk. Then he’s stalking past us and climbing the stairs.
“What was that?” I ask Iris breathlessly. My hands relax and continue to tremble, thanks to the torrent of adrenaline coursing through my veins.
“I always knew Remi was an asshole,” Iris murmurs, looking in the direction he disappeared to, “but I’ve never seen him do anything like that before.”
Reluctantly, I follow her gaze. “He’s been trolling my social media accounts for the past few weeks, but thankfully, the hate he’s been spewing has been easy to ignore. Guess I’ll plan to avoid him in person too.”
“Good.” Iris nods. “I’ll find you after class, okay?”
“Yeah, okay.”
I walk away and try my best to shake off the interaction, but there’s a sudden hollowness in my gut—a feeling that warns me this won’t be the last I’ll be seeing of Remi.
“Remington Blake?” Emmy asks from her perch on the windowsill in the Michelangelo Building, where the majority of the school’s sculpting courses are held.
Emmy and I are there to visit Iris while she works on her midterm project: a sculpture of a small, wary girl crumpled over in seeming defeat, with a tree seedling sprouting out of her back, in the space between her shoulder blades. It’s both sorrowful and inspiring.
Sometimes new life grows in the most unexpected of places.
Or, is it really that unexpected? I honestly don’t think it is. Not after knowing Iris.
She nods at Emmy, her hands coated in molding clay.
“Yeah, well, I’m not surprised then,” Emmy continues.
“He’s always been a pretentious asshole.
If he’s not in first place, he’s in last. No wonder he’s intimidated by Maeve.
” She laughs, but the dark timbre of it seems to please the shadows in the room, coaxing them closer.
“That’s why he’s treated you like shit for all these years too, valedictorian,” Emmy finishes, gesturing to Iris’s gorgeous sculpture.
An obvious demonstration of her standing at this school.
“I avoided bullies before, back in high school,” I say. “I’m sure it’ll be fine.”
“I don’t know.” Emmy shakes her head, looking out the window at the dreary weather, the dense cloud cover casting a sickly silver hue over the campus.
“I wouldn’t take his threat too lightly.
I get the creeps whenever I’m around him, and he’s never even targeted me like this before.
He’s always seemed so . . . so violent.” She returns her gaze to me before hopping off the windowsill. “I’d watch your back around him.”
I nod. “Okay, I will. Thanks.”
“Anything for my girls,” she says, walking to Iris before giving her a quick hug from the back. “Bye, darlings. I’m off to Zayne’s.”
“Are you ever going to tell me if you two are actually dating or not?” I ask with a chuckle, standing from my chair as well.
“Oh, but the mystery is half the fun,” Emmy jokes as she hugs me. “See you two later.”
And then she’s gone, like a fleeting summer breeze, leaving an uncomfortable chill in her wake.
“She’s always had that effect on people,” Iris says, noticing my frown at her sudden absence.
“She’s like a ray of sunshine, and so are her paintings, which is why it’s colossal bullshit that her family makes her feel so small.
When I see her mother in person, I have to clasp my hands behind my back to keep from slapping her.
Every word from her mouth is a double-edged sword; polite and civil at first glance, but heavy with disapproving undertones. ”
“Living under the weight of parental expectations isn’t exactly living, is it?” I ask.
The deep ridges chiseled across Iris’s usually smooth brow scream her agreement long before she voices it. “No, it’s not.”
Enveloped in comfortable silence, I watch Iris sculpt. My raucous mind lulls at the sight, finding calm and peace for the first time in days.
“Is the girl you?” I ask quietly after some time.
Iris clenches her jaw, the muscles pulling dreadfully taut, before nodding.
“And the tree?” I continue. “Does it represent your love of art?”
Another nod.
“It’s beautiful,” I murmur. “Just like you.”
Her eyes are moist when her gaze reaches mine; a stark contrast to the hardness in her expression.
“I don’t need to hear that from anyone else most days .
. . but others, when the prosthetic hurts or when I’m undressing in front of Claire in a fully lit room, I can’t stop the doubts from crashing in. ”
My eyes flit to her prosthetic leg unconsciously.
Unless you looked closely, you can barely tell it’s a prosthetic.
She puts a lifelike silicone cover over the artificial limb, starting just below her knee, to match the shape and skin tone of her other leg.
That’s why I didn’t notice it the first time I met her in our dorm room.
In fact, it took a few days before she’d even been comfortable enough around me to take it off while lounging in our room.
“You’re a warrior, Iris—strong and beautiful from the inside out. If you ever need to be reminded of that, don’t be afraid to ask.” I drift to her side, bending to hug her just as Emmy had. “That’s what I’m here for.”
Her messy hands are on her lap, her appreciative eyes locked on me. “Thanks, Maeve.”
I exit the sculpting studio, knowing full well I’m the one who should be thanking Iris. She’s a fabulous friend, and to top it off, she’s just inspired my own midterm project. I love her even more for it.