Chapter 17
Half a week goes by without incident, but I’m still scarred.
On the inside, where no one but me and my closest friends can see.
I refuse to drink anything out of a bottle or cup that isn’t my own, and I tense every time I round a corner in the academic buildings, afraid I might run into Remi again.
But I’m almost never alone now. Iris, Emmy, Franco, and Zayne have made sure one of them is always with me; walking from class to class, during lunch, and even in the evenings in my dorm room when Iris spends the night with Claire.
I’m so appreciative of my new friends that my eyes start to prick every time I think about them.
Especially since Noah still hasn’t been able to come to visit.
With his college course load, part-time job, and baseball schedule, our weekend availability has yet to line up, and won’t for another two weeks, which means he won’t be able to make the trip until Halloween.
He was distraught when we realized this on Sunday, but I was secretly kind of glad. I’ve stuck by my decision not to tell Noah about being drugged, and I worry that if he came here now, if I saw him in person, I might crack and tell him anyway. And that’s the last thing I want to happen.
Now that I’m further removed from the incident, I can acknowledge how deeply ashamed I am, ashamed that I’ve let such an insecure, small-minded man treat me this way.
Which is yet another reason why I want to keep this secret locked away in the depths of my memory, as far away from Noah as possible.
As I’ve walked around campus these past few days, I’ve also come to accept that I don’t feel one hundred percent comfortable at Lizbeth anymore. Remi took that comfort from me.
“How close are you to finishing your midterm painting?” Franco asks me, dragging me from my morose thoughts.
“About three-fourths of the way finished.”
“Damn, you’re fast,” he says, impressed.
“No, not really. I want to sign up for the Halloween Festival Art Contest too, which means I have to finish my midterm painting early if I’m going to have time to compose another for the competition.”
Midterms fall the week before Halloween this year, and all of the students are stressed about it. For Lizbeth students, the Halloween Festival is the equivalent of Homecoming, and the winner of the annual art contest might as well be crowned school royalty, only with a ribbon instead of a tiara.
“I’m proud of you,” Zayne says over his steaming coffee, dark eyes glistening with respect. “For not letting this keep you from living your life.”
We convened for breakfast today, as opposed to lunch, as heavy rain is expected later this afternoon. We’re trying our best to enjoy the last few days of fall; soon the weather will take a turn for the worse, and we’ll have to retire to the main cafeteria in the student center for meals.
“It wasn’t even a conscious choice, really. When things are bad, painting’s always been the only thing that makes me feel any better,” I murmur softly.
A tender silence descends as my friends nod their understanding.
I let myself bask in the safety of it for just a moment before I shake off my melancholy and ask with as much merriment as I can muster, “What about you all? Anyone else entering the contest? I need to know who my competition is going to be.”
“I am,” Emmy admits enthusiastically. “I can’t pass up an opportunity for a shiny red ribbon and bragging rights.”
“I’m not this year,” Iris discloses. “I’m focusing my attention on my midterm piece instead. I have my eyes set on the top graduate programs, after all.”
Curious, I turn toward the guys, eyebrows raised in invitation.
“I might as well,” Franco says with a nonchalant shrug.
Zayne chimes in, “I think I’d rather observe this year. If I compete, I’ll just win. And I want to give lesser artists a chance at victory this time around.”
“So arrogant,” I tut.
“Have they announced what the prompt is yet?” Emmy asks.
“There’s a prompt?”
“Yup,” Franco confirms. “It’s always something vague though, so you’ll have plenty of leeway to get creative with it.”
“Good,” I say as I check the time on my phone. “I should get going. I have an hour before class to work on my midterm painting, and I want to be able to get started on the competition piece this weekend.”
“I’ll walk you. I don’t have class for another hour either,” says Franco as he stands and tosses his empty coffee cup in the nearest recycling bin.
“Thanks.”
I can’t help the way my lips begin to curl as we walk in silence, our gazes raised to watch thick, low-hanging clouds drifting by.
“You’re a badass,” Franco announces out of the blue.
“What?” I ask, glancing sidelong at him.
“I honestly don’t know how you do it all.” Now his eyes are glistening with respect too.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I say with a shake of my head.
“You came here, completely new and unheard of before your rise to stardom on social media. Then you make friends in an instant, and cause the biggest commotion this school’s seen since Phantom’s most recent mural magically appeared overnight, becoming Lizbeth’s resident darling in a week.
And now you’ve been targeted by a raging douchebag, violated in a horrific way, and still, you walk around with your chin up and a smile on your face.
How? How are you able to do all that? The only explanation that I can think of is that you’re a badass. ”
I laugh loudly at that, not willing to admit the truth in his words, but not quite able to deny them either. Despite my meek opinion of myself, I’m proud of how far I’ve come. How much I’ve accomplished.
A minute later, we walk into the Rembrandt Building and head toward the student studios nestled at the rear of the building.
During weekdays, these studios are where students can work on their art in solitude between classes.
The studios are reserved on a first-come, first-served basis and stay reserved until the student’s project is complete.
I’ve had studio seven reserved for three days now and I’m hoping today will be the last day I’ll need it.
“Do you want to come in and see it?” I ask Franco.
“Definitely,” he replies eagerly.
I put my student ID card up to the electronic keypad to the right of the door handle and wait for the metallic clink of the lock sliding back into place, but it never comes.
“That’s weird,” I note, holding my ID up to the scanner again.
Same result. Nothing. So, I grip the door handle, giving it a quick jiggle, only to find it already unlocked.
Worried someone might have gotten in without permission, I scan the room as we enter, but luckily, the canvas is on the easel, exactly where I left it yesterday, facing the window.
Franco walks to it as I shed my coat and backpack and hang them on the back of the door.
“Maeve?” Franco asks with concern in his voice. His nose wrinkles in what looks dreadfully close to disgust.
He hates it, I think incredulously as I run toward him.
“I don’t think this is right,” he says quietly, his eyes beginning to water.
I round on the painting and immediately see what he’s referring to. The stench hits me a moment later, sending my stomach rolling.
My midterm painting is covered in animal feces—in literal shit.
At the horrified look on my face, Franco grabs my shoulders, embracing me. He tries to turn me away from the ruined canvas, but I don’t let him. I stare at the ruined painting, the vibrant paint and expert brush strokes barely visible beneath thick smears of brown.
I lower my eyes as they fill with tears, finally noticing a note taped to the stool before the easel. I rip the paper from the wooden seat with far less vitriol than I’d intended, still tucked tight between Franco’s arms.
Learn your place, the note reads in slanting letters.
“Fucking Remi,” Franco grunts in my ear, muscles flexing against my arms.
In a voice as broken as I am, I whisper, “My painting.”
“It’ll be okay, everything will be okay,” Franco murmurs against my temple.
“How?” I ask, the word drenched in desperation.
He pulls back to look me in the eye. The determined glint I find there offers me momentary peace. Until my phone buzzes.
With shaking hands, I retrieve it from the back pocket of my jeans, and my already aching heart throbs at what I find on the screen. My ruined painting is being shared to the masses on social media. Photos of it are everywhere. And the comments . . .
Is this really the kind of media you chose to work with, Maeve?
This is disgusting!
Vile!
Repulsive.
I’m gagging! Gross!
#yourecanceled
When I raise my gaze to Franco’s, my cheeks are wet.
“People online think I made it like this on purpose. They—they’re—my art. . .”
“Motherfucker,” Franco mutters. “He’ll pay. I swear, Maeve, he’ll pay for what he’s done.” He hugs me tighter and takes the phone from my hand. “Come on. We’re leaving,” he says, voice tight.
“Where are we going?” I ask, the breathy words haunted.
“To Dean Reithart’s office.”
I don’t even argue. Couldn’t summon the motivation if I wanted to. I’m numb. Hollowed out and completely empty.