Phantom

Chapter 24

Okay, seriously, who have you been texting so much?” Iris asks as I set down my phone and return to curling my hair.

“Just Noah,” I lie effortlessly.

Phantom asked me to keep our friendship a secret, so I am.

I don’t tell Iris who I’m texting or who I’ve been spending so much time with this week.

I don’t share the inspiration behind my recent paintings with Emmy.

I keep Noah in the dark, omitting Phantom from our conversations.

I’d even keep it secret from Zayne and Franco too, if they ever asked why I’ve been acting differently, but thankfully, they haven’t seemed to notice.

I don’t know why anonymity is so important to Phantom. I wish I did, but I worry it’s too soon to ask. So, instead, I decide that if they ever choose to open up to me about why, I’ll be here to listen. After all, as they said before, that’s what friends are for.

“Mhm,” Iris hums while leering at me, like she’s trying to sniff out the lie. But I school my features, refusing to let her win this one. I’m not willing to lose my friendship with Phantom for anything.

“Emmy told me your most recent painting for class was excellent, per usual,” she continues, changing the subject as she dresses for the day.

My lips curl upward. “That’s sweet of her. I’m just glad I found inspiration again.”

I ended up earning top marks on the painting of the forest that I submitted for my midterm, and ever since that day, I’ve been painting like a mad woman. But it really had been scary there for a moment. Before Phantom.

Iris’s lips pinch together before she says, “Me too. We were all really worried about you.”

“To be honest, I was too,” I admit in a somber tone. “I was even questioning why I chose to pursue art so seriously in the first place.”

“Well, have you found the answer?”

“Almost,” I say as I finish styling my hair. “It’s frustrating, actually. It reminds me of that feeling you get when you have a specific word you’re looking for and it’s on the tip of your tongue. So close, but not quite there.”

Iris nods her understanding.

Selfishly, I’m hopeful that spending more time with Phantom, watching them paint and talking with them about their craft, will help me get to the answer eventually. It feels like it’s just barely out of my reach.

“Are we going to see you tonight, or are you going to mysteriously slip away like you have been every other night this week?” Iris asks with arched brows, tossing her purse over her shoulder. The crew has plans to see a movie at the local independent theater tonight.

“Sorry, I won’t be able to make it tonight. I’m planning on painting again, but I’ll definitely join you next time.” This lie is at least half true.

“You expect me to believe you just spent thirty minutes curling your hair so that you can paint all alone on a Friday night?” Her eyes are like x-rays, seeing right through me.

“Uh, yeah,” I say with as innocent an expression as I can muster.

“Ugh, fine. Keep your secrets, Maeve Johnson,” Iris huffs as she turns to exit the room. “I’ll get to the truth eventually.”

I smile at the thought of Iris’s confidence in her snooping abilities as Phantom and I climb the dorm’s emergency staircase to the roof.

Phantom has their hands full with blankets and a thermos of hot chocolate.

A cold snap is supposed to be sweeping through town this weekend, and they want to paint on the roof one last time before we fully descend into winter.

When we step outside, I brace against the cold.

After laying out one of the blankets and sitting down, Phantom motions for me to join them. I do, sitting cross-legged at the center. Phantom pours us each a mug of hot chocolate and hands mine over. I take it eagerly, grateful for the warmth between my fingers.

“Phantom, I need to ask you something,” I say, my voice as shaky and unsure as I feel.

The skin above the bridge of Phantom’s nose pinches in question.

Bees swarm my stomach again, despite the deep breaths I take to try and calm myself. “Is the portrait you’ve been working on of me?”

They look away, rubbing an unsteady hand against the side of their mask. “You saw it?”

I nod.

Phantom sighs. “Yes.”

I stare at the steaming cup of cocoa between my hands, watching the vapors disappear on a breeze.

“Are you mad?” they ask quietly.

“I was,” I admit. “But I’m not so sure anymore.”

“Oh.”

My throat constricts as I ask, “Why did you choose to paint me so sad?”

“I don’t think you are.”

The scent of petrichor perfumes the air, earthy and melancholy, as I lift my face to theirs. Their thoughtful gaze is darkened by the shadow of night.

“I imagine you cry like that when you’re happy too.”

I tilt my head. “What?”

Phantom releases a frustrated breath, but they’re not frustrated with me, I realize.

“What I mean is, you feel your emotions, fully and without apology. I admire that about you. That’s why I chose to paint you in that way. But I’m sorry. I should’ve asked your permission first.”

“You have it.”

Phantom raises a dark eyebrow.

“My permission. You have it now.”

Even shadowed, I watch as their eyes sparkle, rivaling the stars above us.

I clear my throat, willing away the rising heat in my core, but there’s no denying the effect they have on me anymore. I’m attracted to them. Insanely so. And if I don’t lock these feelings down soon, I’m afraid they’ll ruin everything.

I can’t ruin this. I just can’t.

“What are we working on tonight?” I ask, desperate for a change of subject.

“It’s a surprise.”

“For me?”

The skin framing their eyes crinkles happily. “Yes, for you.”

They discard their mug on the roof without drinking it and stand. After shoving their hands into thick gloves, they hold out a pair for me. “We’re definitely going to need these tonight.”

As I take them, I ask, “For what, exactly?”

They gesture toward the other side of the roof with a wave of their hand. “Follow me and you’ll find out.”

I take a scalding sip of my drink, burning my tongue, but I ignore the flash of pain as I stand.

Following Phantom as they cross the roof, we move toward a section I’ve never noticed before.

There’s a three-foot drop from the part of the roof we just came from to this new section.

Phantom holds out a hand to help me down.

Once I’m on my feet again, I turn toward the wall between the two sections.

It’s three-fourths of the way covered in spray painted designs, all in Phantom’s classic graffiti style.

“I’ve painted a section for every year I’ve lived in Rockrose,” they say from beside me, watching me take it all in.

The first panel depicts a blood-drenched white rabbit with a crown falling from its head, stuck in a metal hunting trap.

The second portrays a single drop of green acid eroding through a human hand; tissue, sinew, bone, and all.

The third illustrates a man yanking their own heart from their chest; the pain etched on their face is almost unbearable to observe, the sight making my stomach churn. And the fourth panel is empty.

Phantom murmurs near my ear, “I want you to help me finish it tonight.”

I shudder. Not from the cold. Not from Phantom’s proximity. But from the feelings the images before me evoke. These paintings aren’t like Phantom’s other works. These are darker, and far more violent.

Phantom senses my hesitation.

“You don’t want to,” they say, taking several steps away from me.

I whirl on them. “No. It’s not that.” Or is it? “I’ve just never worked with spray paint before.”

“Oh,” they say with a relieved sigh. “It’s fine, I’ll teach you.”

“Okay,” I reply uneasily as I turn back to the graffiti on the wall while Phantom sets up a portable spotlight.

When they’re finished and come to stand by me again, I ask, “What do you want to paint in the final panel?”

“Hmm.” They turn their gaze toward me while they consider. “I want you to decide.”

“But this is your mural,” I remind them. “You should be the one to choose how we complete it.”

“No, that’s ridiculous,” Phantom says angrily, shifting their gaze to somewhere over my right shoulder. I turn around, following their gaze. Nothing’s there but air.

“I don’t think so,” I argue, feeling my temper rise. “This is a hill I’ll gladly die on, Phantom. You choose. Whatever you decide on, I’ll help you paint it.”

Phantom’s gaze returns to me, and they nod.

“Echo.”

Confusion rattles through my brain like a pinball machine. “Echo?” I ask.

“Yeah. You know that feeling you get when you hear something echoing, sometimes so loudly it feels like it’s coming from inside your own head?” they ask as they point a gloved finger toward their ear.

I can only remember feeling something akin to that once in my life, as a child, after I got a concussion from a sledding accident. “Okay,” I say, drawing out the syllable. “What are you thinking for the composition?”

“Let’s keep it simple,” they reply, striding toward a line of spray paint bottles at the base of the wall. They must have come up here earlier today to set them up for us.

Phantom grabs an electric blue bottle and begins to outline on the wall. The rough sketch is of a person covering their ears with their hands, their mouth contorted into a pained scream. Another shudder ripples down my spine.

“What do you think?” they ask when they’re finished.

I shake my hands out to banish the jitters before donning my gloves. “Looks good.”

“Then come over here and help.”

Their eyes are smiling at me again, so I do.

And for the next hour, we paint. Phantom teaches me how to layer the spray paints to create dimension, shadow, and depth, as well as how to use different arm movements to create the appearance of different consistencies and textures, just like brush strokes.

By the time we’re finishing up, I’ve forgotten the subject matter we’re painting and am having a lot of fun.

Until we step back to get the full effect, and I’m forced to remember.

Trapped and in pain. That’s what this mural conveys to me.

It’s not my favorite of Phantom’s works. Not by far.

“Thanks for helping,” they say as they climb back onto the other section of the roof and hold out a hand for me.

“You’re welcome,” I reply as I accept their hand and climb up after them.

They release a heavy sigh before admitting, “I can’t believe I was so nervous to show it to you.”

For a moment, I consider asking them why. But the truth is, I already know why. They’re starting to open up to me. Little by little. Just like I wanted. But, after tonight, I’m starting to get the sense that Phantom’s demons might be worse than mine.

After we plop back down on the blanket, I finish my now cold drink. Phantom notices me shiver again and wraps the second blanket they’d brought around my shoulders before we lay on our backs and gaze up at the stars. My head is tucked between Phantom’s chest and arm; close but not quite touching.

I decide to use the peaceful moment to my advantage.

“Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?”

I sense Phantom tense, but they give me permission anyway. “Sure.”

“How do you identify?” I ask.

I hear their head brush against the blanket as they turn to look at me. “Identify?”

“Yeah.” I pause and watch the stars twinkle for a moment. “Like your gender identity?”

“Oh.” A beat of silence, followed by another. “I’m nothing . . . nothing at all,” they say, dejected.

I scoff. “You’re not nothing, Phantom. That’s not funny.”

“I’m not trying to be funny.”

More silence.

Finally, they say, “I guess non-binary would come the closest to explaining how I feel about myself and gender.”

My throat constricts as I decide to ask my next question, while I still have the nerve.

“And who are you attracted to?” My face is so hot that, for a moment, I wonder whether I have a fever. “Which gender?”

Phantom’s response to this question comes easier. “It’s not about gender for me. It’s about the person—about their soul.”

“What type of person then?” I push, knowing damn well I might be crossing a boundary.

“A good person. Brave and honest and . . . beautiful.”

Their gloved hand twitches next to my elbow, almost as if they’re itching to reach for something, but are holding themself back.

My stomach flutters traitorously. I force any and all hopeful thoughts away by conjuring an image of Noah in my mind’s eye. I take a grounding breath before I speak again.

“Whoever that person is, they sound great,” I eventually find the courage to say.

“They are.”

“So, why don’t you tell them how you feel? Since I haven’t seen you hang out with anyone but me, I’m assuming you haven’t yet.”

Their voice turns hoarse. “I can’t. I’ll ruin them.”

I rise to lean on my elbows so fast I startle even myself. Glaring down at Phantom, as my gaze bounces between green and blue, I’m overcome with the sudden urge to shake them, but thankfully, I shove the impulse down.

“That’s enough,” I rebuke sternly. “You’re not allowed to talk about yourself like that anymore, okay?”

Phantom’s mouth falls open under the mask, their eyes stretching wide to match.

“You’ve been my role model for years. When you talk about yourself like this, it feels like a slap to the face.

It’s like you’re saying I’m wrong for admiring you.

That I’m wrong for taking so much inspiration from your art.

” I’m breathing too fast, my chest heaving in an attempt to keep up. “And it hurts, okay?”

“Okay,” they say, moving a hesitant hand toward my shoulder, but ultimately dropping it before making contact.

“Talk about yourself like I would talk about you,” I plead.

“And how’s that?” they ask breathlessly, a new, unidentifiable emotion swimming in their eyes.

I steal Phantom’s own words. “As a good person. Someone who’s brave and honest and beautiful.”

Our gazes stay locked.

“You’re the best friend I’ve ever had,” they confide, fracturing the tension.

I collapse, falling back to rest on the blanket. My body feels like I just ran a marathon. Instead of responding with words, I grab their hand and lace my gloved fingers between theirs as we stargaze a while longer.

It’s only been two weeks since the Halloween festival, but already, I know Phantom is right.

You’re my best friend too.