I’m good at staying invisible.
Yeah, scary good.
“It just adds the extra oomph it was missing,” Zayne professesto Emmy behind us and I bite down on my tongue hard to keep from laughing again.
Franco looks back at Zayne before smirking at me, as if to say, ‘Ah, I get it now.’
I shake my head at Franco as I turn back to my easel. I’m working on my final piece for my portfolio now. So far, it includes almost every painting I’ve done since arriving at Lizbeth, plus a handful of paintings I composed while back at home, before my formal art education began. I like the depth my older paintings add to the portfolio. It’ll show how much I’ve grown as an artist.
My phone buzzes in my bag, making the easel shake. I look around to make sure my friends aren’t watching me before bending forward to retrieve it again.
Care for some unprompted feedback?
Phantom.
My palms begin to sweat as I type my response.Shit. What if they hate my painting?
Sure.
My eyes are glued to my phone screen as I watch small, gray typing bubbles appear below my response. My fingers tingle in anticipation.
Find less narcissistic friends.
I can’t help it. I snort out a laugh so loud the entire class turns to look at me. I blush as I pivot toward the window, away from the prying eyes, as Phantom texts again.
Sorry, did you think I meant feedback about your painting?
I reply with shaky thumbs,Duh
No feedback from me there. It’s extraordinary.
I beam so much that my cheeks start to hurt.
Reminds me of the joy and innocence of youth. If I could walk into that painting and live there forever, I would. Gladly.
My pulse thuds loudly in my ears as I reread their text twice, then three times.
I consider the finished painting on my easel. This one took me days to finish. Four layers of oil paint, hundreds of strips of painter’s tape, and too many different types of brushes to count went into making this baby. It’s my take on abstract impressionism. Using tape to expose the multitude of layers of paint underneath. Each layer gives the viewer something unique and different, so when you appreciate the piece together, all at once, it gives the impression of time passing. The painting depicts a portrait of a young child’s face, a subconscious blend of Gideon and Everly’s faces, I’ve come to realize, looking to the sky with childish, whimsical fascination. It’s an expression I’ve seen on my sibling’s faces more times than I can count, and it’s one I miss dearly.
This painting is my yearning for family in physical form.
It touches my heart that it awakened similar feelings in Phantom. That’s all I’ve ever wanted my art to do. To make people feel something real.
I turn back around, grateful to find the class has already forgotten about my outburst and moved on with their day. But then, to my surprise, my gaze snags on Phantom, peering intothe classroom through the thin, rectangular window in the door. Their eyes are like knives, cutting me open and making me bleed.
I gasp, though I’m the furthest thing from scared. The breath failing to settle in my chest was summoned from a different sensation entirely, from knowing full well that I’ve never, not once, felt this exposed, this studied, this memorized.
I don’t break eye contact. Subconsciously, my thighs squeeze together against a building, all-consuming heat that I refuse to acknowledge.
They stare for a moment longer before they disappear from the window completely.
My phone vibrates in my lap.
Add it to your portfolio and your social media accounts. It needs to be shared with the world.
I shiver, the intensity of their praise utterly exhilarating.
“Hey, Zayne,” I call a few rows behind me. “Can you come take a picture of my painting, please?”
