I snort, trying to come off as dismissive, but I’m pretty sure I ruin it by looking down at my outfit self-consciously.
“But seriously, Zayne is a good guy deep down,” he explains. “You just have to learn his quirks. If you act like a doormat, he’ll stomp on you until you’re dead. But if you demand his respect, and do something worthy of earning it, he’ll be the most loyal friend you’ve ever had.”
“What did you do to earn his respect then?” I ask, failing to mask the irritation in my voice.
“I told him one of his photographs was garbage,” he says matter-of-factly. Emmy gasps dramatically. “Because it was. And he respects me now because I spoke the truth.”
“Fair enough.” I whirl on Emmy. “Then what didyoudo to earn his respect?”
“I slept with him,” she replies simply, an empty beer bottle dangling from her fingers. “I was so good, I made him cry.”
She laughs maniacally as Franco chokes on his beer. I roll my eyes but laugh right along with them.
Beside us, Iris and Claire appear, their hair disheveled and outfits askew. Claire’s long copper strands are braided and wound into an intricate bun at the nape of her neck. Her pale skin and freckles look almost sallow under the vivid, pulsing light, though it does nothing to dampen her allure.
“Claire, this is Maeve,” Iris says.
I grin as alcohol hums beneath my skin, loosening my tense, nervous muscles. “Hi. Nice to meet you.”
“You too,” she replies, drawing my attention to her tragically smeared plum-hued lipstick.
“Claire makes digital art,” Iris explains, though her gaze remains glued to her partner.
“And you paint, right?” Claire asks me, squinting as the oscillating strobe light nearly blinds us.
“Yeah.”
“Well, it looks like you’ve met the whole crew, newbie,” Franco proclaims, leaning against the center island. “Now, let’s get outrageously drunk.”
Emmy cries, “That’s what I’m talking about.”
Everyone refreshes their drinks from the tub and forms a semi-circle around the island.
“To sophomore year. One of the best years of our lives,” Franco toasts.
Bottles clink all around and everyone drains their drinks.
As the chill of the glass lingers on my lips, I wonder how exactly I’ll fit in with these people, but when Emmy takes my hand, once more leading me toward the library/makeshift dance floor, I realize I’m more than willing to try.
The night passes us by in a hazy, sweat-stained blur.
I vaguely remember dancing my heart out, and drinking to excess, and being led, bleary-eyed, back to our dorm by Emmy and Iris. But what I remember most is the painting I dream up in the realm between sleep and wakefulness after being safely tucked into my new bed.
I’ll start it this weekend,I promise myself.Right after I visit Phantom’s mural again.
11Fans
After my online store reached a thousand pending prints, I had to close it to future orders. It’ll take me weeks, if not months, to get all of those orders filled as it is. Especially with my new class schedule. Apparently, at Lizbeth they employ the most strenuous curriculum during sophomore and junior year, in an attempt to encourage their students to take advantage of the diverse and plentiful study abroad programs their senior year. So, needless to say, my class schedule is jam-packed, with a measly twenty-minute window sandwiched in between for lunch.
As I get ready for my eight o’clock class on Monday morning, I feel sick to my stomach and I can’t stop my hands from shaking. After spending all weekend with my classmates, I have to admit I’m thoroughly intimidated––from an artistic standpoint, anyway. Emmy has a natural talent with the brush that other artists would kill for. Franco’s sketches are more detailed than most photographs I’ve seen, and Iris’s sculptures are so intricate and bold that they demand their audience’s attention. Even Zayne’s photographs are impressive, but I’m not willing to give him any further praise than that at the moment.
When I step out of our shared bathroom twenty minutes before class is due to start, my hair is curled, and my face is made up.I’m not sure why, but I really want to make a good impression on my first proper day here. My outfit is plain, though, consisting of boyfriend-cut jeans and a graphic tee. Since most of my classes are art classes now, I’m going to be wearing my protective coveralls more often than not, so who cares what I’m wearing underneath?
I grab the violently yellow fabric and shove it in my backpack next to a couple of new textbooks before taking one of my portable painting totes, specifically the one I stayed up far too late organizing.
I meet Emmy in the hall, and we start the short trek to class together.
“Are you ready?” she asks, adjusting the clear-rimmed eyeglasses perched atop the bridge of her nose. Apparently she only wears them while painting, opting for contacts the rest of the time.
