Chapter 22
I’m smiling like an idiot when I wake up the next morning.
My painting session with Phantom reignited something in me that had been dampened.
My zeal for life, perhaps? Well, whatever it is, at least I know I’m grateful for the side effects because, for the first time in too long, I’m in the mood to paint.
I hop out of bed and whiz through my morning routine. By the time Iris is waking up, I’m already heading out the door.
“Where are you off to so early?” she groans from under her covers.
“To paint a bit before class.”
A smirk tugs at her lips even though she’s trying her best to hide it. “Good for you. See you later.”
“Bye!”
I dash to the Rembrandt Building, making record time.
“Are there any studios available for reservation?” I ask Chelsea, the studio coordinator, behind her desk in the front lobby.
“Afraid not,” she says. “They’re all booked up today.”
I curse under my breath as I walk away, checking the time on my phone. There’s still plenty of time before my first class of the day.
What to do?
I walk back outside. There’s only one other thing that might scratch this itch I’m feeling.
If I can’t make art, I sure as hell can appreciate it.
On autopilot, my body heads directly toward my favorite part of Lizbeth’s campus.
To the Monet Building. To Phantom’s mural of the bird in perpetual flight.
When I get there, I grab the apple I snagged from the cafeteria the day before from the depths of my bag.
As I eat, I plop down on a small patch of grass against the building opposite and stare up at one of my favorite paintings.
I’m only there a couple of minutes before I feel a familiar weight fall upon my shoulders.
I whip my head around, searching, until I spot someone sitting on a bench a ways down the sidewalk. After they realize I’ve noticed them, they stand and stalk toward me.
“I guess I shouldn’t be surprised to find you here,” Phantom says, dressed in a lilac hoodie and khaki pants. A dainty gold choker sparkles against their throat. “You did say this one was a favorite of yours.”
“Good morning.” I smile brightly at them. “What are you doing out here so early?”
They cock their head to the side, causing a wavy tuft of hair to fall into their eyes. “I could ask you the same question.”
“Well, my answer’s easy.” I sigh with disappointment. “I woke up in the mood to paint, so I rushed to the studios, but they’re all booked. So, this is the next best thing.” I gesture to the wall with my apple-free hand.
Phantom nods. “I like observing art too . . . when I know I can’t get my hands on a brush.” They peer up and down the sidewalk, like they’re on the lookout for other students heading our way.
“You know, I’ve never seen you on campus like this before.” I can’t believe it, honestly. Lizbeth’s campus, nor their total number of enrolled students, is that large. Statistically speaking, if they’re a student, I had to have seen them around here at some point over the last month.
“I’m good at staying invisible,” they reply simply.
“That’s important to you,” I state. It’s an informed observation, not a question.
They nod again, rubbing a hand against the back of their neck as their eyes flit from left to right once more.
My stomach twists. “Okay, then. Don’t feel like you have to hang around me on campus if you think it’d draw attention to you. We can always hang out off campus.”
Phantom stops searching the area to study me. A few beats pass before they speak again. “I have somewhere I’d like to show you. I think you’d enjoy it. Are you free this weekend?”
The apple posed in front of my face drops to the ground with a thud.
The knots in my stomach tighten. “Uh—um, yeah. Sure.”
Phantom looks from me to their mural. The moment they break eye contact, I find myself spewing off a mental list of ways I can try to reclaim it.
“I’m glad you like this one,” Phantom says softly, maybe more to themself than to me. “It’s one of my least popular pieces, but it’s also one of my most honest. Honesty isn’t always pleasant, is it?”
I watch their gaze grow sorrowful as I respond, “No. It’s not.”
Phantom starts to back away. “Text me later . . . you know, so I can stay invisible.” A single black eyebrow perks up mirthfully—almost as if they’re trying to taunt me.
Are they joking with me right now? Are they smirking under that mask?
I’d laugh if I wasn’t so stunned.
“Okay,” is all I say before they’re gone, vanishing around a corner.
I glance down at my half-eaten apple, now covered in dirt, before returning my gaze to the watchful bird.
I like this painting even more now.
“What are you giggling about?” Franco asks from his sketching desk.
This is the only class all five of us have together: Portfolio Prep.
We have it on Fridays every other week. Some of us, like Iris and Zayne, have already started applying to graduate programs, while others––me included––are a bit behind the curve.
This class is supposed to help us get our act together by forcing us to compile our art portfolios for job applications or grad school admissions.
“Nothing,” I say quickly, discarding my phone in my backpack next to my easel.
It takes everything I have not to turn around in my seat and scan my surroundings.
Phantom had been texting me, teasing Zayne for his latest addition to his portfolio: a shirtless, black-and-white photo of himself.
Don’t get me wrong, he’s gorgeous and all, but to add that specific photo, out of the thousands he takes a week, to his professional portfolio is just downright hilarious.
But the harrowing part of our conversation is that I know, for an absolute fact, Phantom’s not in this classroom with us right now, so I have no idea how they’re seeing and hearing everything I am.
A wave of goosebumps breaks across my skin, making me shudder.
Maybe they’re peeking in through the windows, or they’re listening in with some kind of techie listening device?
I’m good at staying invisible.
Yeah, scary good.
“It just adds the extra oomph it was missing,” Zayne professes to Emmy behind us and I bite down on my tongue hard to keep from laughing again.
Franco looks back at Zayne before smirking at me, as if to say, ‘Ah, I get it now.’
I shake my head at Franco as I turn back to my easel.
I’m working on my final piece for my portfolio now.
So far, it includes almost every painting I’ve done since arriving at Lizbeth, plus a handful of paintings I composed while back at home, before my formal art education began.
I like the depth my older paintings add to the portfolio.
It’ll show how much I’ve grown as an artist.
My phone buzzes in my bag, making the easel shake. I look around to make sure my friends aren’t watching me before bending forward to retrieve it again.
Care for some unprompted feedback?
Phantom.
My palms begin to sweat as I type my response. Shit. What if they hate my painting?
Sure.
My eyes are glued to my phone screen as I watch small, gray typing bubbles appear below my response. My fingers tingle in anticipation.
Find less narcissistic friends.
I can’t help it. I snort out a laugh so loud the entire class turns to look at me. I blush as I pivot toward the window, away from the prying eyes, as Phantom texts again.
Sorry, did you think I meant feedback about your painting?
I reply with shaky thumbs, Duh
No feedback from me there. It’s extraordinary.
I beam so much that my cheeks start to hurt.
Reminds me of the joy and innocence of youth. If I could walk into that painting and live there forever, I would. Gladly.
My pulse thuds loudly in my ears as I reread their text twice, then three times.
I consider the finished painting on my easel.
This one took me days to finish. Four layers of oil paint, hundreds of strips of painter’s tape, and too many different types of brushes to count went into making this baby.
It’s my take on abstract impressionism. Using tape to expose the multitude of layers of paint underneath.
Each layer gives the viewer something unique and different, so when you appreciate the piece together, all at once, it gives the impression of time passing.
The painting depicts a portrait of a young child’s face, a subconscious blend of Gideon and Everly’s faces, I’ve come to realize, looking to the sky with childish, whimsical fascination.
It’s an expression I’ve seen on my sibling’s faces more times than I can count, and it’s one I miss dearly.
This painting is my yearning for family in physical form.
It touches my heart that it awakened similar feelings in Phantom. That’s all I’ve ever wanted my art to do. To make people feel something real.
I turn back around, grateful to find the class has already forgotten about my outburst and moved on with their day.
But then, to my surprise, my gaze snags on Phantom, peering into the classroom through the thin, rectangular window in the door.
Their eyes are like knives, cutting me open and making me bleed.
I gasp, though I’m the furthest thing from scared. The breath failing to settle in my chest was summoned from a different sensation entirely, from knowing full well that I’ve never, not once, felt this exposed, this studied, this memorized.
I don’t break eye contact. Subconsciously, my thighs squeeze together against a building, all-consuming heat that I refuse to acknowledge.
They stare for a moment longer before they disappear from the window completely.
My phone vibrates in my lap.
Add it to your portfolio and your social media accounts. It needs to be shared with the world.
I shiver, the intensity of their praise utterly exhilarating.
“Hey, Zayne,” I call a few rows behind me. “Can you come take a picture of my painting, please?”