I shrug. “Zayne’s photography inspired me, I guess, though I’m loath to admit it. And I let my inspiration guide my art, even if it doesn’t necessarily fit with the subject matter I’m painting.”
“Why?”
I tap the end of my paintbrush to my chin. “Well, if I force myself to conform to everyone else’s expectations, I’ll get bored, or worse, resentful. And I’m not keen on letting that happen.”
Emmy looks at me as though she’s never seen me before. “Damn.”
“What’s all the chatter about over here?” Daniel asks as he weaves through the crowd of easels and chairs.
Emmy points at my canvas. “Check out Maeve’s painting.”
Daniel comes to a stop a foot or so behind my chair and assesses my painting over my shoulder. He’s silent for several moments before he speaks. “Remarkable.”
Some unidentifiable weight snaps loose from its tether deep within the chasm of my chest; my shoulders pull back for the first time since I stepped foot on campus.
Suddenly, chairs are scratching against the linoleum floor and students are clamoring to get a look. I stand and back away while my classmates get their fill. As though I’d unintentionally stepped into a sauna, my entire body warms, growing damp. I’ve never had a group of people this large appreciate my art at the same time like this, and it’s more than a little disorienting.
“It looks like our newcomer understood the assignment,” Daniel announces. “Tell us, Maeve, what was going through your head while you composed this painting?”
I clear my throat, desperate for the dryness to subside. “Well, um, first, I tried to identify the emotion the model was experiencing, then I, uh, just created a story in my head that fit with the emotion, I guess, and my choice of color scheme was inspired by a piece of art I saw over the weekend.”
“Magnificent. And which emotion did you imagine the model was experiencing?” he asks.
I glance at the model, who, thankfully, is robed once more, his job complete. He’s staring back at me, eyes narrowed in uncertainty.
“A determined kind of sadness,” I say, returning my gaze to the professor. “Like something important hasn’t gone his way and he’s trying to find his way through to the other side.”
“You could see that?”
“Sorry?” I ask, turning to find the model with his lips parted in apparent awe. He’s standing all the way across the room, so it’s difficult to hear him.
“I was just fired from my dream job last month,” the model explains, “and now I’m trying to figure out what to do next.”
“Well, there you have it, class,” Daniel exclaims in a booming voice. “It seems our newest student is the one to beat this year. I suggest you all do your best from here on out.”
Silence cloaks the room for the length of a few tortuous heartbeats until it’s broken by a harsh scoff. I look toward the soundto find a tall, masculine-presenting person with indigo-hued hair in a paint-stained apron shooting daggers at me. The violence in their gaze sends a shiver down my spine.
Suddenly, I feel afraid, andveryunwelcome.
“Class dismissed.”
By lunch, every student at Lizbeth knows my name.
“Well, shit,” Zayne says from the other side of the table. “You sure know how to make a splash.”
“I was just painting,” I respond dismissively.
“Take it as a compliment,” Emmy redirects. “Now everyone at this school wants to either kiss you, kill you or be you. Honestly, I’d do downright deplorable things for that kind of exposure right now.”
Franco asks, gaping, “Did you just quoteThe Hunger Games, Emmy?”
She waves him off as she retorts, “The classics are classic for a reason, Frankie, dear.”
He scowls at the nickname but opts to take a bite of his sandwich instead of arguing.
My phone vibrates several times in my pants pocket but I don’t move to grab it.
“Social media blowing up too?” Iris asks knowingly, her cool exterior slowly but surely starting to thaw.
