Chapter 18
Dean Reithart gave me a formal extension on my midterm project, but since there’s no way to definitively prove who defiled my painting, despite the university administration’s extensive investigation, no one will be punished for it.
The last few days have passed in a blur.
My friends did some damage control on social media, diligently advocating for me, and gratefully, most of my fanbase reverted back to singing my praises, but a fair number of the internet trolls chose to stick around and ordain me as their new virtual punching bag.
I’d be lying through my teeth if I said their negative comments didn’t hurt.
I try to take Emmy’s advice and let it go—like water off a duck’s back, as she’d so eloquently put it—but I’m not as strong-willed as her.
I’m much more sensitive than I like to admit, even to myself.
Why did I want this again?
I remember wanting my parents’ attention and wanting to connect with Noah on a deeper level through my art.
That was it, wasn’t it? Or was there more?
Because my desperate search for attention sure as hell gave me more than I was asking for.
New school. New challenges. New expectations.
New friends. New fans. New bullies. New levels of anxiety.
In truth, my anxiety has never been worse. It’s damn near constant now, constricting my lungs, trying to convince me I’m suffocating in a room full of air. It’s as terrifying as it is debilitating.
And I don’t even have art to comfort me anymore. I’ve been afraid to paint ever since the incident.
I sigh as I roll over in bed. It’s Saturday, and after I drag myself out of bed, I know I should get started on my painting for the festival competition, but every time I think about painting something new, I remember the foul stench of my last painting and gag.
No. Today I’ll find something else to do. Something to distract me. Something to make me feel just a fraction better.
“Good, you’re awake,” Iris says as she exits the steamy bathroom. “What are we doing today?”
I flip onto my back and release a frustrated breath. “I don’t know. I don’t know what to do with myself anymore.”
“I have the perfect solution then,” she declares with a wicked grin. “Get up and get dressed. We’re going out.”
“Okay, but where?” I ask.
“You’ll see when we get there,” she answers evasively. “Just make sure to wear clothes you don’t mind ruining.”
That piques my interest enough to get me moving. I toss the covers off and race to the bathroom. When I’m finished getting ready, Iris is on the phone talking to someone. “Just make sure we have enough, all right? We’re going to do this until it works.”
“Who was that?” I ask after she hangs up.
“Franco,” she says. “Come on, let’s go.”
It’s especially chilly out today, so we bundle up in winter coats and beanies and start walking in the direction of Zayne and Franco’s house.
“Are we going to day drink?” I ask hopefully.
Iris laughs. “I wish. But no, we’re doing something more . . . therapeutic.”
When we get to their house, we don’t go in the front door like usual. Instead, Iris leads us around the side of the house toward a large, wooden privacy fence.
“The backyard?” I ask.
“You’ll see.”
We pass through the gate in the fence to find Emmy, Franco, and Zayne waiting for us.
“What’s going on?” I ask them, growing more suspicious by the second.
“Today,” Iris proclaims, “we’re painting.”
The back of my throat fills with sour saliva, and I struggle to swallow it down.
“I saw the look on your face, Maeve. That asshole’s taken too much from you already,” Franco explains. “But hell will freeze over before we let him take your love of painting.”
“I—I really don’t know if this is a good—”
“We’re doing this,” Zayne snaps, brows furrowed in steely determination. “End of story. Come on.”
He gestures for the group to follow him into a large wooden shed near the back of the yard.
When we enter, my eyes flash wide at the sight of yards and yards of transparent plastic tarp taped to the floor, the walls, even the ceiling.
I’m immediately reminded of several creepy murder mystery television shows, but then I notice the gallons of colorful paint on the floor and the large blank canvas leaning against the back wall.
Zayne turns on a small light bulb hanging from the ceiling and closes the door behind us. Emmy hands me a heavy, red water balloon. “Throw it at the canvas,” she commands.
“Guys, I really don’t want—”
“Don’t think,” she yells. “Just throw it!”
I don’t think, just act, as the intensity of Emmy’s shriek cancels out all semblance of reason or logic.
The water balloon smacks against the canvas with a splat and releases a torrent of jade-tinted paint. The sight of the vibrant color pooling on the floor makes my heart rate soar, the steady, soothing beat of it reaching all the way down to my toes.
Before I can process the sensations accosting my brain, I’m handed a large paintbrush sopping with viscous ocher paint. Instinctively, I flick it at the canvas.
Shit. That feels good.
Anger heats my blood, from a simmer to a boil in milliseconds. Losing myself in the roiling rage, I whip the paintbrush three more times before I submerge the brush in a new pot of paint, not even noticing the color as the world around me becomes a sanguine haze.
I swing the brush in my hand like it’s a lethal blade, releasing all of my pent-up fury and sorrow on the unsuspecting canvas. I whirl and strike and yell. I cry. I rage. And I keep going until my arm shakes with fatigue and my eyes dry out.
When I’m exhausted, I drop the brush and walk to the canvas, mesmerized.
As if compelled beyond reason, I place my palms against the thick layers of multi-colored paint and swipe them across the canvas.
The paint feels good against my skin. It feels achingly familiar, and, for a single fleeting moment, almost safe again.
Strangely satisfied, I pull my soiled hands away and wipe them down my face, leaving vertical streaks of paint behind on my tingling cheeks.
When I wheel on my friends, each wears comically large, shit-eating grins.
Their little plot worked exactly as planned, and they’re damn pleased with themselves about that.
“There she is,” Zayne remarks with a smirk.
“I knew this would work,” Iris boasts, far too satisfied with herself for my liking.
“Holy shit,” Emmy cries while looking down at her phone, having pulled it from her coat pocket a few seconds prior. “You guys aren’t going to believe this.”
She holds her phone aloft to show us a video that appears to be going viral. I register the sight of Remi in the frame and flinch. But then, I notice that he’s screaming at someone—at Dean Reithart. “That painting isn’t mine!”
Remi looks furious, his face a violent shade of red, and he’s surrounded by a crowd of people on all sides. It looks like they’re mostly students, the throng standing in front of the Picasso Building.
“Someone set me up,” he continues in a high-pitch. “I would never paint something like that.”
“Enough, Remington,” Dean Reithart says in a sharp but even tone. “That painting was turned in to your professor with your signature on the bottom and was composed with your preferred brush technique.”
“Why the hell would I turn in a pornographic painting for my midterm assignment?” he screams. “Answer that for me, huh? That’s fucking crazy!”
“I said that’s enough,” she repeats, her words ice cold. “From this moment on, you are expelled from Lizbeth. Go back to your dorm now and pack your things. I expect you off campus by tomorrow morning.”
Without another word, she turns on her heel and storms away, leaving Remi gaping after her, his mouth opening and closing pointlessly, like a fish out of water.
Then, magnificently, Remi begins to cry, in front of what looks like half of the student body.
Many of them have their phone cameras pointed in his direction, recording.
This will be the talk of the school for days, I realize, if not weeks.
I don’t even try to bite back the wicked smile that twists my lips.
“Karma really is a bitch,” Franco says with a cackle.
“Oh my god. Look at his face,” Iris agrees, pausing to bark out a hearty laugh. “Now, that’s what I call justice.”
I ask, stunned, “There’s no way he turned in a painting like that though, right?”
“I guess someone could’ve painted over his original work,” Zayne reasons, “or submitted a different piece under his name, but Dean Reithart said the painting was done in Remi’s usual style. Now, I’m no painter, but I think it’d be insanely hard to copy another painter’s technique, wouldn’t it?”
“Probably,” Emmy agrees. “But regardless of whether or not he actually painted the piece himself, the asshole got kicked out for it. He’s gone for good!”
Emmy’s point is bulletproof, but the question sticks like glue regardless. If Remi’s telling the truth, who could have done this? Did they do this for my benefit, or does Remi have more enemies?
Well, shit. Whoever’s to blame, I’m wishing them well.
“Fuck yeah,” Franco yells, punching the air above his head. “Let’s celebrate!”
All of my friend’s eyes swing to me, their collective gazes questioning and eager. What are we going to do next? Your call, they seem to ask in unison.
“Hell yeah,” I agree in a shaky voice. “Let’s drink to the douchebag’s well-earned demise.”
In an instant, I’m being squashed at the center of a group hug and smiling uninhibited for the first time in weeks.