“Is that a threat?” I ask, clenching my hands into fists at my sides to keep them from shaking.
“You bet,” he says with a smirk. Then he’s stalking past us and climbing the stairs.
“What was that?” I ask Iris breathlessly. My hands relax and continue to tremble, thanks to the torrent of adrenaline coursing through my veins.
“I always knew Remi was an asshole,” Iris murmurs, looking in the direction he disappeared to, “but I’ve never seen him do anything like that before.”
Reluctantly, I follow her gaze. “He’s been trolling my social media accounts for the past few weeks, but thankfully, the hate he’s been spewing has been easy to ignore. Guess I’ll plan to avoid him in person too.”
“Good.” Iris nods. “I’ll find you after class, okay?”
“Yeah, okay.”
I walk away and try my best to shake off the interaction, but there’s a sudden hollowness in my gut—a feeling that warns me this won’t be the last I’ll be seeing of Remi.
“Remington Blake?” Emmy asks from her perch on the windowsill in the Michelangelo Building, where the majority of the school’s sculpting courses are held. Emmy and I are there to visit Iris while she works on her midterm project: a sculpture of a small, wary girl crumpled over in seeming defeat, with a tree seedling sprouting out of her back, in the space between her shoulder blades. It’s both sorrowful and inspiring.
Sometimes new life grows in the most unexpected of places.
Or, is it really that unexpected? I honestly don’t think it is. Not after knowing Iris.
She nods at Emmy, her hands coated in molding clay.
“Yeah, well, I’m not surprised then,” Emmy continues. “He’s always been a pretentious asshole. If he’s not in first place, he’s in last. No wonder he’s intimidated by Maeve.” She laughs, but the dark timbre of it seems to please the shadows in the room, coaxing them closer. “That’s why he’s treated you like shit for all these years too, valedictorian,” Emmy finishes, gesturing to Iris’sgorgeous sculpture. An obvious demonstration of her standing at this school.
“I avoided bullies before, back in high school,” I say. “I’m sure it’ll be fine.”
“I don’t know.” Emmy shakes her head, looking out the window at the dreary weather, the dense cloud cover casting a sickly silver hue over the campus. “I wouldn’t take his threat too lightly. I get the creeps whenever I’m around him, and he’s never even targeted me like this before. He’s always seemed so... so violent.” She returns her gaze to me before hopping off the windowsill. “I’d watch your back around him.”
I nod. “Okay, I will. Thanks.”
“Anything for my girls,” she says, walking to Iris before giving her a quick hug from the back. “Bye, darlings. I’m off to Zayne’s.”
“Are you ever going to tell me if you two are actually dating or not?” I ask with a chuckle, standing from my chair as well.
“Oh, but the mystery is half the fun,” Emmy jokes as she hugs me. “See you two later.”
And then she’s gone, like a fleeting summer breeze, leaving an uncomfortable chill in her wake.
“She’s always had that effect on people,” Iris says, noticing my frown at her sudden absence. “She’s like a ray of sunshine, and so are her paintings, which is why it’s colossal bullshit that her family makes her feel so small. When I see her mother in person, I have to clasp my hands behind my back to keep from slapping her. Every word from her mouth is a double-edged sword; polite and civil at first glance, but heavy with disapproving undertones.”
“Living under the weight of parental expectations isn’t exactly living, is it?” I ask.
The deep ridges chiseled across Iris’s usually smooth brow scream her agreement long before she voices it. “No, it’s not.”
Enveloped in comfortable silence, I watch Iris sculpt. Myraucous mind lulls at the sight, finding calm and peace for the first time in days.
“Is the girl you?” I ask quietly after some time.
Iris clenches her jaw, the muscles pulling dreadfully taut, before nodding.
“And the tree?” I continue. “Does it represent your love of art?”
Another nod.
“It’s beautiful,” I murmur. “Just like you.”
Her eyes are moist when her gaze reaches mine; a stark contrast to the hardness in her expression. “I don’t need to hear that from anyone else most days... but others, when the prosthetic hurts or when I’m undressing in front of Claire in a fully lit room, I can’t stop the doubts from crashing in.”
