Iris pulls out her desk chair and sits before opening her laptop. Trying her best to ignore us, it appears.
“So, I saw something strange on my way back from orientation,” I begin, turning to face Emmy, automatically assuming she’ll be the more likely of the two to answer my question. “It looked like a painting I’ve seen before, from a pretty popular painter named Phantom. Is it a replica, or is it—”
Emmy interrupts me before I can finish. “You mean the depressing mural of that dead bird? Yep, that’s the original.” She says it so casually, as if this information wouldn’t turn my whole world entirely upside down.
My breath hitches, making me choke on my words. “You’re joking.”
“Serious as death,” she says as she crosses her arms over her chest like a corpse in a coffin.
“Who are they?” I ask. “I have to meet them.”
“Good luck with that,” Iris scoffs.
Emmy reads the question in my face.
“No one’s been able to figure out their true identity.” She rakes a deft hand through the bluntly trimmed ends of her hair. “We don’t even know for sure if they go here, or if they just randomly drop by campus to show off.”
“Seriously?”
“Yep,” Emmy affirms with a nod of finality. “It’s the university’s biggest scandal, honestly, and what a shame too. If someone unmasked them, it’d be the juiciest bit of gossip these halls have seen in decades.”
“Shit...” I fall to sit on the edge of my bed, defeated.
Emmy asks, a curious glint in her gaze, “Big fan, are you?”
My eyes squint as I grimace. “Is it that obvious?”
“Clear as crystal,” she taunts with a light-hearted waggle of her eyebrows.
“Someone’s got to figure out who they are eventually though, right?” I ask.
“Want an autograph that bad?” Iris taunts, eyeing me over the top of her laptop. Apparently, I’m interesting enough to warrant her attention now.
Anger flares in my chest. “No. Not an autograph. I’d just like to meet them. Once. To thank them. They’ve been something of an inspiration to me over the years,” I explain proudly, not willing to let Iris’s scrutiny intimidate me anymore.
Her eyebrow cocks up at my response. “Interesting.”
“Do you like Phantom’s work too?” I ask, sensing an opening.
She sucks her teeth, clearly still irritated. “Only an idiot wouldn’t.”
Emmy opens her mouth to speak, but Iris beats her to it, “Yes, Emmy, I mean you.You’rean idiot.”
Emmy shoots Iris a withering glare. “I’m not an idiot; I just prefer art with... happier undertones.”
“You don’t mean ‘happy,’ you mean ‘commercial,’” Iris retorts hotly.
“Commercial?” I ask, confused as hell as I pull at a frayed thread dangling from my lumpy, standard-issue dorm mattress.
“Emmy comes from a royal artistic pedigree. All of them are infuriatingly successful and disgustingly wealthy. So my dear friend here is under the impression that she’ll be worth nothing at all as an artist if she isn’t racking up the dollar signs with her art. Isn’t that right, darling?”
Emmy huffs. “Something like that. But we both know my brush has the Midas touch. Everything it touches turns to gold.” Her grin turns wicked.
This time, Iris notes the question in my expression. “She’s already won thousands in cash prizes from art competitions.”
“No way!” I exclaim, jealousy unhinging my jaw.
Emmy says with mischief in her eyes, “Just to prove I could.”
