“You’re a badass,” Franco announces out of the blue.
“What?” I ask, glancing sidelong at him.
“I honestly don’t know how you do it all.” Now his eyes are glistening with respect too.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I say with a shake of my head.
“You came here, completely new and unheard of before your rise to stardom on social media. Then you make friends in an instant, and cause the biggest commotion this school’s seen since Phantom’s most recent mural magically appeared overnight, becoming Lizbeth’s resident darling in a week. And now you’ve been targeted by a raging douchebag, violated in a horrific way, and still, you walk around with your chin up and a smile on your face. How? How are you able to do all that? The only explanation that I can think of is that you’re a badass.”
I laugh loudly at that, not willing to admit the truth in his words, but not quite able to deny them either. Despite my meek opinion of myself, I’m proud of how far I’ve come. How much I’ve accomplished.
A minute later, we walk into the Rembrandt Building and head toward the student studios nestled at the rear of the building. During weekdays, these studios are where students can work on their art in solitude between classes. The studios are reserved on a first-come, first-served basis and stay reserved until the student’s project is complete. I’ve had studio seven reserved for three days now and I’m hoping today will be the last day I’ll need it.
“Do you want to come in and see it?” I ask Franco.
“Definitely,” he replies eagerly.
I put my student ID card up to the electronic keypad to the right of the door handle and wait for the metallicclinkof the lock sliding back into place, but it never comes. “That’s weird,” I note, holding my ID up to the scanner again. Same result. Nothing. So, I grip the door handle, giving it a quick jiggle, only to find it already unlocked.
Worried someone might have gotten in without permission, Iscan the room as we enter, but luckily, the canvas is on the easel, exactly where I left it yesterday, facing the window.
Franco walks to it as I shed my coat and backpack and hang them on the back of the door.
“Maeve?” Franco asks with concern in his voice. His nose wrinkles in what looks dreadfully close to disgust.
He hates it, I think incredulously as I run toward him.
“I don’t think this is right,” he says quietly, his eyes beginning to water.
I round on the painting and immediately see what he’s referring to. The stench hits me a moment later, sending my stomach rolling.
My midterm painting is covered in animal feces—in literalshit.
At the horrified look on my face, Franco grabs my shoulders, embracing me. He tries to turn me away from the ruined canvas, but I don’t let him. I stare at the ruined painting, the vibrant paint and expert brush strokes barely visible beneath thick smears of brown.
I lower my eyes as they fill with tears, finally noticing a note taped to the stool before the easel. I rip the paper from the wooden seat with far less vitriol than I’d intended, still tucked tight between Franco’s arms.
Learn your place, the note reads in slanting letters.
“Fucking Remi,” Franco grunts in my ear, muscles flexing against my arms.
In a voice as broken as I am, I whisper, “My painting.”
“It’ll be okay, everything will be okay,” Franco murmurs against my temple.
“How?” I ask, the word drenched in desperation.
He pulls back to look me in the eye. The determined glint I find there offers me momentary peace. Until my phone buzzes.
With shaking hands, I retrieve it from the back pocket of myjeans, and my already aching heart throbs at what I find on the screen. My ruined painting is being shared to the masses on social media. Photos of it areeverywhere. And the comments...
Is this really the kind of media you chose to work with, Maeve?
This is disgusting!
Vile!
Repulsive.
