I’ve grown used to the attention now; students calling out my name as I pass them on campus, young strangers in restaurants asking for pictures, other social media influencers asking me to do interviews and collaborations. It’s almost scary how quickly I was able to adapt.
But even though I’ve been floating on cloud nine since the debut ofTGLC, I have to admit that I’m still dangerously sleep-deprived. My classes are harder than I ever could’ve imagined, so every second I’m not managing my social media or hanging out with friends, I’m painting, studying, or moping about Phantom.
I try to pick up the pace as I walk to my oil painting class, but my feet feel like lead blocks.Damn, I really need a nap.
Seeing Iris in front of me on the sidewalk, I call out to her.
She turns, stopping to wait for me. When I catch up, she’s smirking at me. “Shit, Maeve. You look exhausted.”
“Thanks,” I scoff. “Now I know I look as bad as I feel. That makes me feel so much better.”
“Sorry,” she replies with a laugh. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just mean you should slow it down or you’re going to burn out before midterms.”
I groan. “Please, don’t remind me.”
“You’ll kill them if you take a minute to rest every now and then,” Iris says.
My mouth bends gratefully skyward. She’s become such a close friend over the last few weeks. When I first met her, I took her cold exterior as a testament to her personality, but I couldn’t have been more wrong. It sounds like it’s more likely a defense mechanism. After two generously poured glasses of wine last weekend, Iris had confided in me. Ever since her cancer diagnosis and subsequent amputation, she’s been terrified of being perceivedas weak or fragile, which is why she comes off so hostile at the beginning. But for those who persevere and power through the steely outer shell to the warm, compassionate Iris underneath, they’re rewarded greatly.
“You’re right,” I agree as we climb the front steps of the Dalí Building.
We wind through steady streams of students walking to their next class before coming to a stop at the foot of the building’s main staircase. Her class is on the third floor, while mine’s right down the hall.
“Tonight, we’ll have a self-care night,” she says, tired eyes perking up at the prospect. “You, me, and Emmy. We’ll do face masks and paint each other’s nails.”
“That sounds heavenly,” I breathe with a sigh, already aching for a warm set of pajamas and my bed, even though I just rolled out of it.
“Perfect, let’s say around—”
Iris doesn’t get a chance to finish her sentence as I feel a sharp blow to the center of my back; the subsequent twinge of pain is nothing compared to the considerable motion now sending me hurling forward. I go flying into Iris’s chest and we both tumble to the ground.
As if awoken by the fall, the muscles in my back throb as I look up to search for what sent us plummeting.
A tall student with indigo hair sheared close to the scalp is staring down at us with a look so vile, it practically oozes disgust. “Even art gods don’t get to take up the entire staircase.”
Making a conscious, though very difficult, decision not to pay our assailant any mind, I turn to Iris. “Are you okay?” I ask calmly, despite my heart beating fast as a hummingbird’s wings.
“Yeah, fine,” she says to me before glaring at the student towering over us. “What’s your problem, Remi?”
“My problem isn’t with you,” Remi sneers, shoving his hands in his jean pockets as Iris stands. “My problem is with the self-righteous rookie.”
“You’re talking about me, I take it?” I ask as I stand too.
The scowl on his face is a perfect replica of the look he gave me that first day in class. “See any other over-hyped painters around?”
“What have I ever done to you?” I demand.
Remi gets into my personal space so fast that I gasp. “Your mediocre art stole my thunder. But don’t worry, I plan to get it backverysoon,” he whispers menacingly. His hot, moist breath pools in my ear, sending frightened goosebumps sprouting along the back of my neck.
“Woah,” Iris cries, grabbing Remi by the collar and yanking him back. “What the hell are you doing?” She drops him instantly, as if the contact burned her.
Remi turns his glare on Iris. “Whatever the hell I want.”
Even though Iris’s body language is relaxed, her fiery gaze betrays her fury. “Just because you’re one of the best painters in this school doesn’t give you permission to treat people like shit. Get your fucking ego under control.”
“Watch your back,” Remi spits in response, his tone dripping with deep-rooted hatred.
My original nickname for him was absolute perfection. Just an angry, scowling, insecure guy––nothing more. I won’t cower before him. I won’t give him the satisfaction.
