“You’ll see.”
We pass through the gate in the fence to find Emmy, Franco, and Zayne waiting for us.
“What’s going on?” I ask them, growing more suspicious by the second.
“Today,” Iris proclaims, “we’re painting.”
The back of my throat fills with sour saliva, and I struggle to swallow it down.
“I saw the look on your face, Maeve. That asshole’s taken too much from you already,” Franco explains. “But hell will freeze over before we let him take your love of painting.”
“I—I really don’t know if this is a good—”
“We’re doing this,” Zayne snaps, brows furrowed in steely determination. “End of story. Come on.”
He gestures for the group to follow him into a large wooden shed near the back of the yard. When we enter, my eyes flash wide at the sight of yards and yards of transparent plastic tarp taped to the floor, the walls, even the ceiling. I’m immediately reminded of several creepy murder mystery television shows, but then I notice the gallons of colorful paint on the floor and the large blank canvas leaning against the back wall.
Zayne turns on a small light bulb hanging from the ceiling and closes the door behind us. Emmy hands me a heavy, red water balloon. “Throw it at the canvas,” she commands.
“Guys, I really don’t want—”
“Don’t think,” she yells. “Just throw it!”
I don’t think, just act, as the intensity of Emmy’s shriek cancels out all semblance of reason or logic.
The water balloon smacks against the canvas with asplatand releases a torrent of jade-tinted paint. The sight of the vibrant color pooling on the floor makes my heart rate soar, the steady, soothing beat of it reaching all the way down to my toes.
Before I can process the sensations accosting my brain, I’m handed a large paintbrush sopping with viscous ocher paint. Instinctively, I flick it at the canvas.
Shit. That feels good.
Anger heats my blood, from a simmer to a boil in milliseconds. Losing myself in the roiling rage, I whip the paintbrush three more times before I submerge the brush in a new pot of paint, not even noticing the color as the world around me becomes a sanguine haze.
I swing the brush in my hand like it’s a lethal blade, releasing all of my pent-up fury and sorrow on the unsuspecting canvas. I whirl and strike and yell. I cry. I rage. And I keep going until my arm shakes with fatigue and my eyes dry out.
When I’m exhausted, I drop the brush and walk to the canvas, mesmerized. As if compelled beyond reason, I place my palms against the thick layers of multi-colored paint and swipe them across the canvas. The paint feels good against my skin. It feels achingly familiar, and, for a single fleeting moment, almost safe again.
Strangely satisfied, I pull my soiled hands away and wipe them down my face, leaving vertical streaks of paint behind on my tingling cheeks. When I wheel on my friends, each wears comically large, shit-eating grins. Their little plot worked exactly as planned, and they’re damn pleased with themselves about that.
“There she is,” Zayne remarks with a smirk.
“I knew this would work,” Iris boasts, far too satisfied with herself for my liking.
“Holy shit,” Emmy cries while looking down at her phone,having pulled it from her coat pocket a few seconds prior. “You guys aren’t going to believe this.”
She holds her phone aloft to show us a video that appears to be going viral. I register the sight of Remi in the frame and flinch. But then, I notice that he’s screaming at someone—at Dean Reithart. “That painting isn’t mine!”
Remi looks furious, his face a violent shade of red, and he’s surrounded by a crowd of people on all sides. It looks like they’re mostly students, the throng standing in front of the Picasso Building.
“Someone set me up,” he continues in a high-pitch. “I would never paint something like that.”
“Enough, Remington,” Dean Reithart says in a sharp but even tone. “That painting was turned in toyourprofessor withyoursignature on the bottom and was composed withyourpreferred brush technique.”
“Why the hell would I turn in apornographicpainting for my midterm assignment?” he screams. “Answer that for me, huh? That’s fucking crazy!”
“I said that’s enough,” she repeats, her words ice cold. “From this moment on, you areexpelledfrom Lizbeth. Go back to your dorm now and pack your things. I expect you off campus by tomorrow morning.”
Without another word, she turns on her heel and storms away, leaving Remi gaping after her, his mouth opening and closing pointlessly, like a fish out of water. Then, magnificently, Remi begins to cry, in front of what looks like half of the student body. Many of them have their phone cameras pointed in his direction, recording.
