I’m gagging! Gross!
#yourecanceled
When I raise my gaze to Franco’s, my cheeks are wet.
“People online think I made it like this on purpose. They—they’re—myart. . .”
“Motherfucker,” Franco mutters. “He’ll pay. I swear, Maeve, he’ll pay for what he’s done.” He hugs me tighter and takes the phone from my hand. “Come on. We’re leaving,” he says, voice tight.
“Where are we going?” I ask, the breathy words haunted.
“To Dean Reithart’s office.”
I don’t even argue. Couldn’t summon the motivation if I wanted to. I’m numb. Hollowed out and completely empty.
18Until it Works
Dean Reithart gave me a formal extension on my midterm project, but since there’s no way to definitively prove who defiled my painting, despite the university administration’s extensive investigation, no one will be punished for it.
The last few days have passed in a blur. My friends did some damage control on social media, diligently advocating for me, and gratefully, most of my fanbase reverted back to singing my praises, but a fair number of the internet trolls chose to stick around and ordain me as their new virtual punching bag. I’d be lying through my teeth if I said their negative comments didn’t hurt. I try to take Emmy’s advice and let it go—like water off a duck’s back, as she’d so eloquently put it—but I’m not as strong-willed as her. I’m much more sensitive than I like to admit, even to myself.
WhydidI want this again?
I remember wanting my parents’ attention and wanting to connect with Noah on a deeper level through my art. That was it, wasn’t it? Or was there more? Because my desperate search for attention sure as hell gave me more than I was asking for. New school. New challenges. New expectations. New friends. New fans. New bullies. New levels of anxiety.
In truth, my anxiety has never been worse. It’s damn near constant now, constricting my lungs, trying to convince me I’m suffocating in a room full of air. It’s as terrifying as it is debilitating.
And I don’t even have art to comfort me anymore. I’ve been afraid to paint ever since the incident.
I sigh as I roll over in bed. It’s Saturday, and after I drag myself out of bed, I know I should get started on my painting for the festival competition, but every time I think about painting something new, I remember the foul stench of my last painting and gag.
No. Today I’ll find something else to do. Something to distract me. Something to make me feel just a fraction better.
“Good, you’re awake,” Iris says as she exits the steamy bathroom. “What are we doing today?”
I flip onto my back and release a frustrated breath. “I don’t know. I don’t know what to do with myself anymore.”
“I have the perfect solution then,” she declares with a wicked grin. “Get up and get dressed. We’re going out.”
“Okay, but where?” I ask.
“You’ll see when we get there,” she answers evasively. “Just make sure to wear clothes you don’t mind ruining.”
That piques my interest enough to get me moving. I toss the covers off and race to the bathroom. When I’m finished getting ready, Iris is on the phone talking to someone. “Just make sure we have enough, all right? We’re going to do this until it works.”
“Who was that?” I ask after she hangs up.
“Franco,” she says. “Come on, let’s go.”
It’s especially chilly out today, so we bundle up in winter coats and beanies and start walking in the direction of Zayne and Franco’s house.
“Are we going to day drink?” I ask hopefully.
Iris laughs. “I wish. But no, we’re doing something more... therapeutic.”
When we get to their house, we don’t go in the front door like usual. Instead, Iris leads us around the side of the house toward a large, wooden privacy fence.
“The backyard?” I ask.
